


the battle of sanctuary hole

by delurks



Series: beyond the borderlands [17]
Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe, Amputation, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Borderlandscast, Broken Bones, Burns, Death, Emotional Constipation, Explosions, Eye Trauma, F/F, Frostbite, Gen, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Horror, Kink Discovery, Kissing, Loss of Limbs, Loyalty, Near Death Experiences, No Lesbians Die, Stabbing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-29
Updated: 2017-09-29
Packaged: 2019-01-06 19:40:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12217605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delurks/pseuds/delurks
Summary: – / / HISTORICAL AUDIO EXCERPT #23 OF 'THE BATTLE OF SANCTUARY HOLE' CHOSEN. LOG LOADING, PLEASE STANDBY. NOW PLAYING ARCHIVED ECHO LOG. / / –Parvis: listen up, we’re about to go into the biggest battle of our lives! we might not live to see how it finishes, but we can definitely start it with everything we got. we gotta go hard and fast, so that they know we mean business! we’re not alone. we got saberial, turpster, martyn and the tomcats–Martyn: i resent that name for my toms!Parvis: YOU CAN THANK NILESY FOR IT. ALSO, STOP INTERRUPTING MY SPEECH– STOP LAUGHING, THIS IS SERIOUS BUSINESS!Turpster: you look like you’re about to give a rock concert!Parvis: this is how i always do my speeches!Saberial: leave him alone, he’s getting psyched up in his own way!Parvis: WE’RE READY TO GO TONIGHT, THERE’S A PARTY, ALRIGHT. WE DON’T NEED NEED A REASON FOR THIS JOY, YEAH, SO LET THE CLOCK TICK DOWN TO MIDNIGHT, IT’S GONNA BE BRIGHT. WE’RE GOINGDOWN–Martyn: you gotta admit, it’s catchy!Turpster: i’m going to check on daltos.Saberial: and i’m going todance.– / / ECHO LOG INTERRUPTED. CONTINUE? Y/N? / / –





	the battle of sanctuary hole

**Author's Note:**

> gun related violence and lots of punching. eye trauma also happens, and burning someone’s hand alive. stabbing is also abound. just. lots of fun times in this chapter, so mind that.

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Ravs: Aye, guess who it is? It’s your only son, Ravs! Now, mum, I know I’ve been a bit late calling this week. It must be dawn right now, on Dionysus. Sorry about the timing.

Listen, a lot of things happened. I don’t have time to explain, since it’d take me too long, but this…might be the last time I’m calling you. I’m going to save the universe. Aren’t you proud of me?

You said you’ll always be proud of me (so long as I don’t smoke), but I think trying to save the universe deserves a special place in your heart. I sent you all my life savings just in case I don’t…come back.

You remember Nilesy, right? He’s one of my closest friends. He’s going to run my bar for me. If you want him to send you anything of mine, here’s his info. Just don’t tell him any embarrassing childhood stories about me, okay? I got a reputation to uphold!

Love you always. Bye, mum.

P.S. I’ve also sent you photos of myself, including the embarrassing ones, so you’ll have something left of me.

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

Zylus doesn’t remember taking the stairs up to Ravs’ room, or slamming the door open so that he can lead him and his passenger in. The door slams and locks, the impact eliciting a flinch from the person he’d dragged in. He remembers he’s hanging onto their arm, prying his fingers loose. His fingers left a series of creases all along Daltos’ jacket.

Daltos massages his sore arm, watching him with an exhausted weariness like he knows what’s coming, and is bracing himself first. He moves away from the door, towards the far side of the room, keeping Zylus in his line of sight the entire time.

It’s strange how neither start yelling. He follows, of course. He can’t help but feel like he’s cornering Daltos. He traps him against the wall, next to an old calendar hanging from a bent nail. Daltos bumps a set of drawers. 

The cat picture on top of it clunks, shifting in its wooden frame. A stack of decaying letters bundled together with a leather band rustle in faint irritation.

“You lied to me!” Zylus hisses, laying the accusation out in the open so that it’s unavoidable.

“I did what I had to do!” Daltos answers, matching him in volume. What he’s saying is a statement that he’s not ashamed of. “My gang wouldn’t have survived so long otherwise!”

“Is that justifying telling them to attack Sanctuary Hole?” Zylus’ mind keeps looping the events from downstairs, stuck on the memory of Daltos holding not one, but  _ two _ ECHO devices refusing to leave his mind.

“I told you, that wasn’t me!” Daltos repeats, his voice harsher than before. The weariness is replaced by the familiar flash of temper in his expression. It’s gone though, when Zylus blinks.

He’s never known him to beg for forgiveness, or to fall to his knees with any intent of delivering an apology. Delivering other things, however… To get an apology, even a half-assed one, is immature and wishful thinking.

“Who was it, then?” Zylus inquires, bitterness coloring his words a sour yellow.

“I don’t know!” Daltos sighs, his tense posture slackening. Seeing him be this unhappy incites an explosion of overlapping flashbacks before Zylus’ eyes. “Arsenal wouldn’t pull a stunt like this.”

Zylus shakes his head to dislodge them. The current Daltos has come so far; they both have, trying not to ruin what the two of them currently have by reverting to old, highly mutually destructive patterns.

“Who’s Arsenal?” Zylus has heard that name before, in passing. It’s distinctive, with a formidable reputation attached. Bandits that said it peered over their shoulders, in hushed tones.

He guesses that it’s one of Daltos’ lead lieutenants. There’s obvious holes in Zylus’ memory, of whether or not Daltos has mentioned him before. Bandits have always been a bad topic to broach, for multiple reasons; the main one’s that Zylus didn’t want him to miss what he’d grown accustomed. The other reason’s less noble.

Daltos gives him an odd look as Zylus tries to remember. “He’s the one who tipped me off about the Blitzkrieg Blighters.” He extends a hand, spawning one ECHO device. On the screen is the aforementioned message (now ‘read’).

Guessing that Daltos is letting him read it, Zylus takes it, albeit gingerly. He’s tempted to keep the ECHO device as a petty gesture. Resisting that temptation, he hands it back. Whoever this ‘Arsenal’ is, he must be loyal to Daltos. The message adds to Daltos’ credibility. It was shaky to begin with, thanks to Turpster’s accusations and Daltos’ deception. What can he say that won’t exacerbate matters? 

“I’m still hurt by what you did.” Zylus looks right at him, seeing how open he’s being at the moment, and a bit of aged guilt stirs, at the bottom of his lungs.

“I’m not sorry.” Daltos despawns the device.

“I know you’re not,” Zylus responds, neutrally. “But I still trusted you.” He’s aware of how close he’s standing, half a step away. He draws back, pretending to fix his sleeve.

One of the cuffs is loosening. A hole’s forming from when it’d caught on a stray, bent nail. Freeing his sleeve nearly tore the gold decorative trimming off. Trying to repairing it ate up the last of his dark brown thread. He hasn’t had a chance to buy more since.

The past few days have been too tumultuous (to use a word he picked up from peering over Daltos’ bare shoulder whenever he read in bed before sleeping).

“I trusted you too.” Daltos changes the topic. “Do you still trust me?” Zylus doesn’t answer him. “Even if you don’t, why are you leaving me behind?” Still, nothing. He’s in Zylus’ face, blocking out the rest of the room with his presence.

“Do you remember why I didn’t kill you?”

“You had your hands wrapped around my neck, and the gun you held to my head. How could I forget that?” Daltos laughs, bitterly. “I couldn’t believe you still own ‘Hornet.’”

“And you still have ‘Emperor.’”

“We’re getting off-topic.” Daltos leans in. “I said back in T-Bone Junction that I don’t want an apology. I still don’t! Zylus, I just want to know–”

Zylus smiles. “Daltos, I don’t want you to die.”

The admission disarms Daltos of the ability to speak for five seconds. Zylus knows, because he counts them, as he watches a slew of emotions, all messy and genuine, travel across Daltos’ face. The last one stays: rage. Daltos’ hands contort, curling into fists. 

The motion has Zylus inwardly preparing to protect himself. He’s not prepared for the emotional outburst.

“You’re leaving me behind since you want me to  _ suffer!” _ Daltos’ voice cracks at him on the last word. “Is it because you don’t trust me not to backstab you again?”

It’s his turn to disarm Zylus of speaking. “That’s not why I’m leaving you behind!” How did he even reach that conclusion?

“You can’t have other reasons!” Daltos snaps back. “It’s the only one that fits!”

“It’s not!”

“Then  _ why?” _

“It’s because I–” Zylus claps his hands over his own mouth.

Comprehension fills Daltos’ gaze as rage leaves it. He shakes his head, starting to pace the room from one side to the other.

Ravs’ room is smaller and plainer than Zylus previously imagined. He’d expected it to be racier; the bullymong fur blankets are the only item that plays to that image. Otherwise, Ravs’ bedroom is fairly ordinary. When Daltos is this agitated, the room’s walls close around Zylus. Nothing beyond these walls matters.

“You can’t possibly be in love with me. Again.” Daltos holds up a hand when Zylus is about to speak, briefly stopping his restless pacing to look at him. “If you apologise, I’m punching you in the gut.” When he sees Zylus flushing, he adds in a deadpan, “Gently.”

“Don’t gently punch me in the gut!” Zylus’ face might be on fire right now, but he laughs, to hide the fact that Daltos  _ knows _ . Him knowing makes everything a hundred times worse. Daltos reading him and behaving like it doesn’t change anything is a thousand times worser.

“It’s either that or I kiss you, for being stupid.” Daltos tilts his head. “Which would you prefer?”

That prolongs the burning beneath both of Zylus’ eyes. “Neither!”

By the drawers, Daltos taps his boot in thought. “Okay.” He reaches up to shrug his bandolier off one shoulder, before undoing the crimson cloth wrapping around his neck. The skin underneath still bears marks that Lalnable would find suspicious. Daltos drops it on top of the drawers, starting to take off his jacket.

“What are you  _ doing?” _ Zylus crosses the room in a few strides to grab his hands.

“Just reminding you of what you’re gonna miss.” Daltos raises an eyebrow like it’s obvious.

“I’m missing nothing!” Zylus denies. He snatches the bit of cloth up. Daltos remains perfectly still, letting Zylus rewrap it around his neck. The end is tucked in.

“You still haven’t changed your mind.”

“No.” Zylus sighs. “I’m not leaving you behind because I want to. I’m leaving you behind because I want you to be safe.”

“Nowhere’s safe if my bandits are coming here.”

“I shouldn’t have taken away your ECHO device, even if I was scared you’d call your bandits.”

“All of my bandits running wild around Pandora have bigger things to do than shake down T-Bone Junction for one person. Besides, I told them not to bother looking for me.”

“Why not?”

“That, is another topic we’re talking about, once you get back.” Daltos leans his forehead against Zylus’. Zylus doesn’t move or breathe. He doesn’t want to. “Hey Zylus.”

“Yes?” Zylus whispers.

“We have some eavesdroppers.” Without another word, Daltos detaches from him. Flustered, Zylus presses a hand to his face. The conversation didn’t end the way he wanted to, but at least Daltos appears to understand that he’s not going to Elpis.

Daltos unlocks and tugs open the bedroom door. Will Strife and Nanosounds nearly fall on top of each other from being pressed up against the door.

The resulting conversation with the Vault Hunters is one that Zylus is more than happy to forget. He’s halfway down the stairs when he’s yanked back. Zylus would also like to forget that resulting moment with Rythian’s juvenile teleporter stunt. In spite of wanting to punching Rythian’s grinning face in, Zylus manages to wish Rythian ‘good luck’ a second before Rythian teleports elsewhere with Nanosounds and Will Strife in tow. Maybe he feared the consequences.

Staring at the formerly Rythian occupied space, Zylus is tapped on the shoulder. He turns his head to see Daltos, who’s wearing a soft look on his face. It makes him look five years younger.

“You should go and get ready,” Zylus reminds.

“You too,” Daltos says. A wry sort of smile appears on his face, which Zylus returns.

“Wait.” Everything else Zylus would like to say to him wells up in his throat; there’s not enough time, and this isn’t the place to do it in. He swallows it all back down. He has to come back from the suicide mission; he can’t hurt him again, like he did all those years ago. In his HUD, a tab flashes. “Can you help me with this?” He holds out the Dahl combat military uniform that’s still protectively wrapped in its transparent, plastic packaging.

Daltos eyes it with surprise. “What’s with the change of outfit?”

“I don’t want this uniform to get wrecked.” Zylus appreciates that Daltos doesn’t have any smartass remarks to make about the sudden change in wardrobe.

“Step right this way, then,” Daltos says, dropping his voice and adding an exaggerated husky note that Ravs would be proud of. Zylus ignores it as best as he can, passing him into Ravs’ bedroom.

Daltos locks the door, handling Zylus’ package. A twist of his thumbs crinkles the plastic seal, exposing the contents, as new as the day they got given to Zylus before he’d stepped onto the frigate that’d serve as his home for the next year or so.

From the package, he unfolds the outfit, leaving it on Ravs’ bed. He keeps his back turned out of polites (though he didn’t need to) as Zylus removes his formal uniform, exchanging it for the dark brown military jacket and the olive green cargo pants.

With his help, Zylus goes through the motions of properly preparing the rest of the outfit. There’s a lot of superfluous accessories he doesn’t bother with (like the tactical sunglasses, or the gas mask). He does however, take the spare digistruct module that’s included. The steel grey bandolier snugly hugs his chest as it’s strapped into position. He adjusts it, making sure it doesn’t chafe or ride up against his shoulders.

“Always wanted to know what you’d look like as a bandit, if you’d actually bothered to stick around,” Daltos idly remarks, expertly adjusting Zylus’ shirt collar, folding it down. It’s such a minute detail that Zylus is pleasantly surprised that he bothers with it, let alone cares.

“Do you like it?” Zylus asks. If Daltos notices that he sounds shy, he does an exceptional job of hiding it. His hands leave Zylus. He steps back.

“Can’t say I got any major complaints.” Daltos looks him up and down, rather approvingly.  He turns to rummage through Ravs’ wooden chest of drawers while Zylus packs away his items.

Zylus carefully folds up his formal uniform, tucking it into the space which the combat one had occupied, next to the small jar containing his detached, original eyeball, his old Dahl dogtags, his corrosive Dahl pistol ‘Hornet’, the matchbox with the one silver rank bar, next to all the other personal mementos he couldn’t dispose of, not even for cash and when he’s starving.

The new uniform is light, practically vibrant compared to his duller one.

When Zylus and Daltos descend the bar’s stairs, everyone who’s still present halts whatever they’re doing to stare at the former. Zylus wants to retreat and switch back to his formal uniform; Daltos’ hand finds his own, leading him through the bar. He tries not to remember how warm his hand would be, without the glove in place.

Tugging his own hand back to his side, Zylus mumbles that he’d like to go and say his other goodbyes while he can. Daltos lets him go without a fuss or a sarcastic comment. Maybe he has his own goodbyes to say too.

Zylus finds Teep sitting at the counter with Panda; Panda’s helping Teep sit. Teep taps Panda on the shoulder, directing them away. Panda does so, giving Zylus an acknowledging nod as they pass. Zylus is glad for the discretion. The last time he’d met Panda, he’d given them the slip in regards to where he really got his ship, Greenman, from.

During the meeting, Zylus had seen Teep arriving with Panda in tow; Rythian, Zoeya, Ravs and the others had reacted with immense joy to see Teep alive. It’d erased his fears that Teep had well and truly died. He hadn’t wanted to add to Teep’s current problems, hanging back (despite Daltos’ insistent nudges to the back). When Ravs had greeted Teep, he’d worn a familiar set of dogtags.

Teep’s hooded head tilts up and down to take in Zylus’ new outfit. He’d forgotten that Teep’s not likely to think of Dahl in a positive light. He’s about to explain when Teep’s good hand moves.

“Not bad. Nobody would recognise you as a hermit now,” Teep signs. The motion’s less fluid than it usually is, but that’s a given since Teep’s other arm is currently encased in a cloth sling. “You got my message?”

“I did.” Zylus nods. He’s rolled the sleeves up to his elbows; the lack of security around his exposed wrists is foreign, making him a touch restless. “The stealth drive was functional when Bebop tested it.” 

“Good. Hey, come here and lean your head down.” Giving Teep a quizzical look, Zylus nonetheless, steps forward, obeying. Teep delivers a swift, precise chop to the top of Zylus’ head–gently, that is. Zylus blinks, thrown off by the momentary nostalgia of being a little kid again. He rubs his head, careful to avoid tussling his hair. “What was that for?”

“For being an idiot,” is all Teep signs.

“About what?”

“Lots of things,” Teep cryptically signs. “You got ninety-nine problems and a big, unrequited gay crush’s one.” 

In the background, Panda gasps as they’re hugged (lifted entirely off their feet) by Saberial. When they’re released, Panda mock salutes her and Zoeya, departing the bar with their head held high. They leave an open crate full of lollipops in full view by the door; bandits and civilians gather around it, trading flavors and colors.

“If this is your way of telling me to confess, it’s not happening,” Zylus mumbles. A peek behind him confirms that Daltos is too busy talking to his ECHO device in an isolated corner of the Crooked Caber. Teep’s hand moves again; Zylus winces, preparing for another chop to the head. He gets his hair ruffled instead. Teep’s humouring him.

“No point in rushing. You can always passionately declare it over ECHO.” Teep pats him on the shoulder, letting Zylus comb his hair back down with his fingers. “Show them all what real flying is.”

“I will,” Zylus says, smiling. He pins the message that pops up in his HUD. It contains further instructions how to overclock Greenman’s drives as a last resort, should the stealth drive fail. He wouldn’t dream of damaging Greenman that way, not unless it really came to that.

“Go get them,” Teep quotes. It lifts Zylus’ mood, but briefly. Teep leaves him before he can say ‘good luck’. Zylus wishes that he could avoid an emotional goodbye like they could.

The person Zylus needs to find next is Nilesy. Nilesy is dispensing final drinks into a barrel posted underneath a dribbling drink tap. Nilesy sets aside the tankard he’s used to catch the leaks (much to a watching bandit’s disappointment). “Zylus! What can I do to help you in this trying time?” His eyes roam over the military uniform. “I kind of dig the new look.”

“Now if only it was permanent.” Ravs inserts himself into the conversation. Zylus blushes to please Ravs. Ravs beams at this.

“I have a favour to ask of Nilesy,” Zylus confesses.

“What is it?” Nilesy and Ravs share a look. They both know that it’s not like him to ask for random favours. Ravs loses his grin; so, he knows. Nilesy isn’t as quick to catch on.

“I need you to look after Daltos while I’m gone,” Zylus explains. “I can’t think of anyone else to ask, and all I want is for him to be safe–”

Nilesy’s head bobs in a nod. “I’ll try.” He smiles at Zylus, to put him at ease. It almost works. “I’ll try,” He repeats, in a firmer tone.

“Thank you,” Zylus murmurs gratefully.

“Was great sharing recipes with you.” Nilesy salutes him with a friendly grin. “See you around, Zylus.”

“Zylus, before you go.” Ravs leans across the counter. He kisses Zylus’ cheek. Zylus squeaks, hand flying to his own face. Laughing, Ravs regards him with a familiar, fond warmness. He leaves Ravs and Nilesy be.

Daltos is chatting to Minty. Their conversation ends when Minty shuts off her feed to finish up preparations on Elpis. People avoid looking at him. He ignores them all with an imperious expression.

“You done, babe?” Daltos lightly asks. Zylus nods, ignoring the pet name.

The two exit the Crooked Caber, staying close to one another. The Vault Hunters are gathering, finishing up final goodbyes. Daltos escorts him across town, past a squabbling Turpster and Parvis by a bunch of barricade being dropped by off by hovering FyreUK workerbots. Parvis briefly glances at Daltos; Turpster drags him back into the argument.

At the Fast Travel Station, Zylus lifts his hand to enter the code. Daltos is glancing left and right; Zylus doesn’t blame him for being warier than usual, even if it isn’t his fault that his gang’s on the warpath with everyone. 

It’s a cool night. Scores of floodlights around the high, concrete walls add an unnatural, artificial ambience. It’s hard to see the night sky in its natural beauty, compared to the tinier, isolated, less lit town of T-Bone Junction. There’s no sand rubbing against his shield or senses, the constant battle to find and remove particles caught in his boots. He kind of misses the town. 

His eyes find Daltos’. Daltos’ eyes find his. In the split second that nobody’s attention is on them, Daltos yanks him closer. Zylus is spun around to face him.

“Good luck,” Daltos murmurs, softly, between the two of them, against Zylus’ parted mouth.

He releases Zylus from his hold. Ignoring the prickle of incoming tears, Zylus tries to cling to the fleeting memory before the Fast Travel Station whisks him away to T-Bone Junction. He hopes with every fibre of his mortal being that he hasn’t made the second, worst decision of his entire, to-be short life.

Please, let Daltos be  _ safe. _ Let him  _ live, _ if he should die, and if Daltos were in his place, he’d want the same thing.

Watching until the Fast Travel Station folds in on itself, Daltos traipses back to the Crooked Caber. Ravs is waiting inside, still behind the counter. “Want one last drink?” He offers. “I’ve got a special discount just for you…it’ll help you stop missing him–”

“No.” Daltos waves a finger in front of his face. “And I don’t want to hear anything from you about him.”

He can’t fool Ravs. “Alright, my lips are sealed.” Ravs winks at him. “But come here, I got to do this before I go too.”

“If it’s a goodbye kiss, you can give it to Minty for me.” Daltos nonetheless, edges into kissing distance. Grinning, Ravs nods once, before punching him in the face.

Daltos falls against the counter. He recovers in a second, back on his feet and glowering at Ravs. “What gives?” Ravs had held back on that punch too, flexing a fraction of his usual strength.

“You told me, a long time ago, that if you ever called someone by a pet name, to punch you,” Ravs reminds. “I would have done it for you calling me ‘sweaty beefcake’ if I hadn’t been enjoying it so much.”

“I don’t remember telling you to punch me!” Daltos rubs at his face like it can stop the stinging along his cheek.

“My, what selective memory you have.” Ravs laughs, his laugh rich and deep. “It was back at Minty’s old haunt, years ago, when we first met Hols.”

Daltos frowns. “You still remember that?”

“I remember a lot of things,” Ravs playfully says, his eyes hungrily roaming over him. “Need me to jog your memory? No appointment needed.”

Daltos roll his own eyes in response. “Go find someone else to shamelessly ogle,” He dismisses. “Also, why do you have my old underwear, which I gave up trying to find years ago?”

“Well, you never came back for them, so I kept them safe for you,” Ravs breezily explains.

“I bet you were just hoping that I’d have an excuse to drop by.”

“Didn’t hurt to be optimistic.”

“Also, you don’t have any other underwear except for the heart boxers.”

“Those were yours!” Ravs pretends to look offended. “And why were you looking through my drawers?”

“Ravs, the heart boxers wouldn’t fit me, but they’d fit your fat ass.” Daltos sighs. “I needed a safety pin for Zylus.”

“Alright.” The two stand there, not knowing what to stay to each other, not until Ravs shifts.

“As it so happens, I got to find Nilesy, but Daltos, thank you.” Before he can dodge, Ravs gives him a quick, chaste peck on the cheek. “Don’t be a complete stranger, okay?” He strides off to the back room.

“Never was one,” Daltos responds. He stays at the counter, watching Ravs go. Their mutual history piles around his feet, making the buried, soft spot for him pang, sweet in all its brief longing for the old days.

\--

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Lalnable: Parvis! I don’t have time to fuck around and you don’t either, so where are you dragging me?

Parvis: We gotta say ‘good luck’ to Will before he goes to the Vault thingy!

Lalnable: ‘Goodbye and rest in peace’ would have been more appropriate–

Parvis: Will’s not going to die!

Lalnable: Right, and I’m not going to ask how you know this.

Parvis: He won’t! Will isn’t the type to let his friends down!

Lalnable: You really believe that?

Parvis: Yell fucking heah I do!

Lalnable: So, where is he?

Parvis: Just wait! He went off to get his turret looked at. Heh, that sounds dirty.

Lalnable: Please, get your mind out of the gutter while you can.

Will Strife: Parvis! Rythian said you were looking for me?

Parvis: Yeah! I was! And so was Lalnable!

Lalnable: I’m not here of my own will.

Will Strife: If this is about saying goodbye–

Parvis: NOPE, THIS IS ABOUT TELLING YOU GOOD LUCK! I wrote a song for you, Will! Want to hear it–

Lalnable: Absolutely not! People want to be able to hear!

Parvis: I WROTE A SONG FOR WILL ‘BADASS’ STRIFE, AND THIS IS HOW IT FUCKING GOES!

Will Strife: …

Lalnable: …

Parvis: WILL, GET YOUR GAME ON, THE VAULT AIN’T A STAR, SO AIM RIGHT, HEY–

Will Strife: Parvis!

Parvis: You don’t want to hear my song?

Will Strife: I do want to hear your song! But I can’t stick around for it in full. Rythian just sent out a call for everyone to meet by the Fast Travel Station.

Parvis: Oh.

Lalnable: Give him a recording.

Parvis: No! Now that I think about it, my song’s pretty lame–

Lalnable: Here’s the recording. I heard him practicing it earlier and couldn’t help myself.

Parvis: Lalnable!

Will Strife: I’ll listen to it to psyche myself up.

Parvis: Will, let’s have a jam session when you get back, okay? Even if all you can play’s the triangle!

Will Strife: Pinky promise–hey, I can strike sick chords too!

Parvis: YOU MADE A PINKY PROMISE, YOU CAN’T BREAK THOSE, EVER.

Will Strife: Gimme a hug too.

Parvis: DONE. YOU TOO, LALNABLE.

Lalnable: Fine. Listen, Will, as your doctor, returning in one piece certainly isn’t feasible with the odds you have, but I’d be happy to treat you, my only condition being that you return  _ alive. _

Parvis: Me too! I’m a lot better with needles now!

Will Strife: I’ll keep that in mind.

Lalnable: No excuses.

Parvis: Yeah, no excuses! Good luck, Will! Nilesy also says good luck! But he’s busy moving stuff so he can’t come and say goodbye in person!

Will Strife: Thanks, you two.

Lalnable: Well, that wasn’t so hard.

Parvis: You okay? You look really sad.

Lalnable: I’m sad that I keep getting my time wasted by people like you.

Parvis: Aw, you want a lollipop to cheer you up? I got a few here!

Lalnable: ...Where did you get those?

Parvis: Somebody left a crate full of them by the Crooked Caber’s door! I grabbed some before it got swarmed!

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

In his rented room above the gun shop, Sips packs the last of his possessions into a suitcase. His suitcase is a true traveler’s companion, a blocky brown rectangle with enough cracks to make a drought jealous, and a tacky plethora of tourist destination stickers to confuse a seasoned courier. He’d need a crowbar to pry off the layer of overlapping stickers since the glue has melted to the suitcase.

He bought it on a whim in a pawn shop located on Pandora’s east coast. With some modifications performed during the bumpy and meandering bus ride, Sips turned it into his advanced mobile centre of operations.

He’d planned a heist with it, routing funds and browbeating that secretary of his to comply with his orders. Ah yes, Sherlock. Sips should do something about giving that the poor guy a vacation. A very long vacation. Sjin wouldn’t stand for it, though. Sips ponders how to spin the idea in a positive light as he folds his last holiday themed shirt, tucking it in next to a squished vampire mask.

Anybody would say it’s redundant to use a suitcase while he has a perfectly good set of designer digistruct modules (once pimped out in gold; he’s set them back to the default factory model colours to avoid people trying to get fresh with him). Sips is charmed by the antiquity of an authentic suitcase. If all else fails, the suitcase makes a good projectile if swung hard enough at a certain angle.

Downstairs, the shop’s been ransacked of every gun, no matter the quality or make; even the universally joked about Tediore flew off the shelves. The Vault Hunters never figured out that Ravs was ripping them off by paying them in coupons and booze; Sips suppresses a sigh. Too bad he won’t be around to see that go down.

He’ll miss the wild gossip, the sleepy days, the budding relationship between himself and Turpster, never having to get up before noon, chaotic trivia nights, the delicious flavours of the local booze, and the lack of a good cigar that didn’t stink of shoveled animal scat.

The people really made an impression on him. Sips made a few noteworthy friends; he’d wanted to say ‘hi’ to Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross, preparing to leave his booth. Before he could, Rythian began the meeting, robbing him of the chance. Also, he’d seen Elsa happily following Nilesy around. He’d like to know how Elsa ended up in Sanctuary Hole. That’s for another time. She’s in safe hands.

Despite being annoyed at being denied the chance to say ‘hi’ to his former traveling companions, Sips hadn’t said a single word, listening in. Nobody had kicked him out. They’d probably thought simply by being present, he’d help them out. When the meeting concluded, Sips headed for his gun shop; vacation’s over. He’d liquidated his entire stock in about an hour by giving it all away for free. 

Seeing Alsmiffy, Ross and a few of the Vault Hunters eagerly dig into his store had given him satisfaction that he’d never been able to get elsewhere (except for that one time he’d won a scholarship in a gruelling poker game, sending him to university to pursue a business degree).

Sips passes by to say goodbye to Turpster. Turpster’s sad to see him go. He expresses as much, giving Sips an awkward hug (he’ll probably miss the monetary bribes more than the close company). One of Sips’ favourite customers practically melts out of the shadows to stand behind Turpster. Turpster’s immediate reaction is to almost shoot Teep; Teep doesn’t react.

Word spreads that Sips is leaving town. In a few minutes, friendly faces crowd around him. Even those who’ve never stepped into his classy parlour of weapons are here to say goodbye. It’s touching; Sips suppresses the thought that Sjin would have reacted this way, if he’d said that he’d be leaving on vacation in person. Sips grins. His plastic glasses press against the top of his nose. Nobody’s ever seen through his brilliant disguise.

“My name’s not really ‘Sereno’,” Sips begins, and ends with, “It’s Sips!” He throws off his joke glasses. The glasses sail into the air, landing on the band of Turpster’s cowboy hat.

Ignoring the perfect landing, Turpster’s gaping mouth could catch flies. Teep tilts their head, their hood shifting in the breeze. Nilesy and Lomadia’s mouths are rulers, faces stiff. Saberial snorts upon spotting Turpster’s hat. Giggling, Zoeya clings to her, her hand held up to her mouth.  

Parvis flashes a rock sign, flashing a grin. “Thanks for all the discounts!”

Just to add flair to his departure, Sips winks and dabs before hitting the button to Fast Travel. His onlookers spend a few moments pondering the shocking turn of events. In the short interim, the Fast Travel Station resettles, assuming its sleeping pose.

“What was that all about?” Nilesy asks.

Teep shrugs, Lomadia following them out of Sanctuary Hole. Everybody disperses as the invisible clock for the battle ticks down. 

\--

A few minutes after Sips is gone, Martyn arrives. Martyn’s timely arrival bolsters hope as the Toms appear, one by one at the Fast Travel Station. Parvis greets him with a high-five, Martyn returning it with a grin to match his. Parvis launches into an update on the current situation, Martyn asking questions; Turpster’s not around to be irked that he’s hogging the task. The Toms join the Bloody Bandits in preparing, shepherding citizens and locking down the town.

Alone behind a bunch of supply crates, Turpster removes the joke glasses from his hat. He holds the smudged swirly lens, the fake mustache tickling the palm of his hand, the rubber, bulbous nose still appearing pinkish red despite the layer of dust on it. Nobody’s watching him. He slips the glasses into his shirt pocket, patting it once to reassure himself that he hasn’t misplaced it. 

Without Sereno–no, Sips to keep him company on all the trivia nights (and a few quiet ones sharing dinner at his place), he’d almost put the full brakes on his alcoholism. He’s not sure how he’ll cope, with no grey-skinned, conniving bugger around to distract him from reaching for another bottle.

That wink had been for him, right? Sips looked like he had a job to do. It’s time for Turpster to do his too.

Turpster strides off, his duster coat flapping at his heels. Sips’ other onlookers retrace their steps to the Crooked Caber, filing into the bar. There’s a silent question hanging in the air, of the Vault Hunters reaching the Vault yet, or if Zylus is done picking up his passengers at Elpis; it hasn’t been that long since the two teams departed. There is no way of telling if Rythian’s victorious, not until a day’s passed.

Almost snapping the front door off its well-oiled hinges, Turpster doesn’t waste time in storming over to Daltos. Glances are exchanged like paper sheets on trivia night. Turpster’s back is as straight as a flag pole; if he had a bigger gut, it’d escape his shirt and belt. 

Standing so close to Turpster, Martyn sixth’s sheriff sense predicts a showdown. He hangs back, wanting to grasp what Turpster’s really after in confronting Daltos.

Daltos inclines his head from where he’d been watching the hologram of Sanctuary Hole’s surrounding terrain. There’s no real reason for him to stick around, not unless Zylus asked him to. The news that the Blitzkrieg Blighters are on their way has divided people’s opinions of him. 

Ravs and Zylus trust Daltos, so Nilesy will also have to. Lomadia, Saberial, Parvis, Sparkles and Zoeya trust Nilesy. Turpster’s the oddball, though a healthy portion of the Bloody Bandits wholeheartedly agree with him. Quite a few outspoken Bloody Bandits want to murder and gut Daltos as a scare tactic; they’ve been shamed into submission by Parvis’ puppy eyes. 

Martyn and the Toms remain neutral, since Daltos’ gang steered clear of Lynchwood after that one encounter. Martyn’s never personally met him and opinions skewed left or right, depending on who he’s talking to.

The air in the bar’s thickening with building tension. Parvis bounces a leg, wrestling with his bandanna, glancing between the two parties. Saberial and Martyn monitor Daltos and Turpster, while Nilesy and Zoeya watch from behind.

“Sheriff,” Daltos acknowledges, his voice stiff with politeness. Saying Turpster’s proper title had just the faintest trace of sarcasm to it. “How can I help you?”

Interpreting that as a sign of mockery, Turpster’s face twists into an ugly, brutish snarl. He brandishes the sheriff’s trademark pistol, Law. “You, back into Ravs’ room!” Daltos reacts by vaulting backwards over the counter, rounding to face him. An orange SMG’s aimed at Turpster’s head.

“Sheriff!” Saberial’s voice cracks like a whip before Martyn can move. “That’s no way to behave!” Her looming presence behind Turpster has him lowering his pistol, albeit slightly. Her galaxy wide reputation precedes her in the general lawkeeper’s social circle, especially on Pandora.

“We need to confine him so he doesn’t go running off back to his bandits!” Turpster accuses. “Do you want him to run wild too? You can’t predict anything about him–”

“No, but you can’t just point your gun at him without good reason!” Saberial argues. She has a height advantage over him.

“Or shoot him,” Martyn adds, a hand ready on his own holstered gun.

“I got no intention of wrecking Sanctuary Hole! All I want to do is talk to my bandits and find out what’s happening,” Daltos interjects. “Look, I’ll even give you all the information on my gang, units, lieutenants–”

“That would be very helpful,” Saberial says. She begins sorting through the data when Daltos obliges a few seconds later. In that time, he never moves the SMG’s sights off Turpster.

“Really? That seems a bit too simple and generous of you,” Turpster sneers. “Also, I never got any  _ solid _ proof from you or Zylus–”

“Don’t need any, because I  _ am _ innocent,” Daltos snaps. “And leave Zylus out of this, he’s not involved with my mess!”

“Oh, so it  _ is _ your fault–”

“It’s  _ my _ mess, but it’s  _ not _ my fault!”

“Stop it!” Saberial harshly snaps. A muscle in Turpster’s jaw twitches as Daltos’ eyes slide from him to her. “This isn’t the time to fight. Daltos, can’t you call your bandits?”

“Be nice if we didn’t have to you know, fight.” Parvis stops bouncing his leg. “It’d save us all a lot of trouble and dead people, I’m just saying.”

“Please?” Zoeya asks.

Daltos slowly raises one hand from his SMG, almost pointedly so that he’s not shot. He presses it against his ear. Everyone waits, Turpster tapping his boot in impatience. Nilesy can almost hear the crackle of static as the ECHO device wakes, attempting a connection. Daltos frowns, his hand twitching.

“They’re ignoring me,” He finally says, after ten minutes. He’s genuinely surprised (and Nilesy almost says he’s hurt too). He drops his hands, despawning his SMG. “When they get here, I’ll go and–”

“So, you tried, and failed.” Turpster smirks. “So we do this  _ my _ way now.”

“I’m going to try another way.” 

“Can’t do that, you had only only one chance and you blew it.” Turpster’s smugness evokes an irritated sound from Nilesy. 

Daltos inhales like he’s been stabbed in the gut. “I backstabbed my own bandits to help you fuckers out, and you won’t even let me talk to them one last fucking  _ time?” _ His last, rage-filled word has Zoeya gripping Nilesy’s hand. At once, people can see why Daltos was able to command that many bandits, and why Ravs was once drawn to him.

“There’s no time left to try it.” Saberial sighs. “We’re sorry, Daltos, but thank you for your data. It’ll help.”

“Like fucking hell you’re fucking sorry,” Daltos rudely snaps at her. In spite of her fear, Zoeya moves forward to confront him. Saberial places a hand on her shoulder, keeping her by her side.

“We’ll let you out when the battle’s over,” Saberial softly says. “So you can say goodbye to your dead.”

Turpster regards Parvis with distaste. “Oi, gimme a few of your bandits to watch him, since Martyn can’t spare any of his Toms.” Parvis waves a hand. Kogie and Leo step forward, only for Turpster to jerk his head elsewhere. “Not your lieutenants.”

“Why not?” Parvis’ eyes turn into concentrated slits. “They’re...dependable!” He beams as if he’s proud of himself for remembering a difficult word that bandits ordinarily wouldn’t use. Kogie and Leo rub the back of their heads, appearing bashful.

Turpster isn’t as impressed by the effort, scowling. “Send two other bandits to guard him. I don’t want you passing on any secret orders.” Ignoring Parvis’ offended look (and Kogie and Leo grabbing him by the arms), he jabs Law in Daltos’ direction. “Come on, don’t make me get out the handcuffs.” 

Daltos refuses to look at anyone as he’s forced to go upstairs, escorted by Turpster and Law. Two of Parvis’ other bandits detach themselves from their groups to serve as guards, dragging their feet like they’re unhappy about the orders.

A satisfied Turpster descends the stairs. “Alright Saberial, what’s your plan?” 

Without Daltos and Turpster clashing, the tension’s dropped; now there’s just the tension of a battle waiting to begin hanging over all their heads. A few bandits glance up like they expect noises from Ravs’ room, receiving a moody silence in turn.

Saberial gestures to the transparent map of Sanctuary Hole. It expands and swivels on the spot, tilting so that everyone sees a bird’s eye view of the town. Saberial’s fingers tug the borders to focus on the view outside of the town’s walls.

“We have a better plan thanks to BebopVox’s simulations, and with Daltos’ contribution. If we follow it, we should be okay.” She clears her throat. “Martyn, Martyn’s Toms and Turpster are in charge of the power core’s defense. We  _ need _ Sanctuary Hole’s shield to keep the town safe.” She gives Turpster a level stare. “So it’s vital that you keep not only that, but the spare power core safe too.”

Turpster pats the digistruct module on his hip. “Got it.” Martyn nods too as the Toms murmur amongst themselves.

“I’ll be helping too, so you won’t be on your own.” Saberial points to Parvis. “Your gang’s on offense. You’ll be in charge of the battlefield.”

“No problem,” Sparkles says for him; when he entered the bar’s a mystery. “We’ve got a plan of our own, and it’s almost ready. I’ll send the details to you.” Parvis remains silent, basically nodding. His face’s gone slightly green, not too noticeable in the bar’s soft lighting. Maybe he’d been pinning his hopes for Daltos to succeed.

“Let me know if there’s any big changes,” Saberial advises. “Teep and Lomadia are our snipers. They know what’s happening, so try to keep your heads down low. Everyone else who I didn’t mention, you’re all going down below to hide.”

“Saberial–” Zoeya speaks up when Saberial turns to her.

“Zoeya, we’ve talked about this. You can’t stay here.” Saberial puts her hands on Zoeya’s shoulders, leaning down to look right into her freckled face. “Zoeya.”

“You can’t order me to go hide!” Zoeya objects, with a huff.

“I’m  _ asking _ you to go and hide,” Saberial softly says. “I’d go with you, but I need to do my part too.”

“I want a part!” Zoeya insists. “Something that’s not running and hiding!”

“Your part is staying safe so I can concentrate, knowing that no matter what happens to me, you’ll still be alive.” Saberial pulls her into a tight hug. “You have to keep your research safe–”

“My research is all backed up, and Lomadia knows what to do with it!” 

“And Rythian’s notebook too.”

Zoeya raises a hand as if she’s going to shove Saberial away. After a moment spent in Saberial’s tight embrace, she relents, succumbing to it. Her hand folds over Saberial’s arm. She buries her face in Saberial’s chest. “You’re right, but you have to survive too! Or else I’ll be really mad!”

Saberial laughs. “I’d call you cute when you’re mad, but I don’t want to patronize you.” Her hand cups Zoeya’s cheek. “Hey, listen, the cartoon’s finale is tomorrow. I’ll be there to watch it with you, promise.”

“You have to,” Zoeya mumbles. “Nobody else makes spicy popcorn like you do.”

“I’ve done it! I’ve finally impressed her with my mercenary culinary skills!” Chuckling, Saberial brushes Zoeya’s hair aside. “Babe, smile for me, I hate seeing you all gloomy. Teep hates it too.” Zoeya’s reluctant smile has Saberial smiling in turn.

Saberial’s wave of hair obscures the tender, affectionate goodbye kiss between her and Zoeya. The two linger in their final embrace, neither of them wanting to let go so soon. Zoeya is the one who eventually pats Saberial’s arm. Saberial squeezes her one last time before she lets Zoeya slip away.

Zoeya reaches the doorway. There, she stops. She turns, yelling at Saberial, “I love you!”

Saberial’s hand shakes when she puts it down. She takes a deep breath before shouting back, “I love you too!” She hastily wipes her eyes on the back of her wrist.

Laughing, Zoeya nods before closing the door behind her. The sound is too loud in the Crooked Caber. Saberial sniffs, back straight and eyes focused in determination.

Turpster sighs, adjusting his hat. “You should go too,” He says to Nilesy.

Nilesy nods, not trusting himself to say anything to Turpster. He still dislikes Turpster while Ravs has basically forgiven and forgotten. As the defenders of Sanctuary Hole begin their final preparations, Nilesy drags himself into Ravs’ kitchen. Stooping, he retrieves Ravs’ manual from its hiding place.

The manual’s a big thing (and it’s exactly like Ravs in that regard). Nilesy’s surprised at how light it is; it only looked heavy when Ravs had lifted it to show it to him. He’d stumbled under the weight of Ravs’ goodbye and the significance of the parting gifts. He still is. Rubbing his forehead, Nilesy permits a few seconds of his time spent paging through the book.

Everything is handwritten with painstaking and intricate care. Ravs’ handwriting is blocky, slanting to the side at an angle. Nilesy browses the index for interesting entries, past numerous booze entries (hardly in alphabetical order). He scans past his name.  _ His name _ . Almost dropping the book, Nilesy’s fingertip traces the letters.

He flips to the back. There, a sheaf of old letters lie, pressed between the back cover and the last page. He’d know his own handwriting anywhere. Nilesy peels free the uppermost one, checking the date.

His last letter to Ravs was months ago, shortly before he’d written to let Ravs know that he’d be moving into Sanctuary Hole (and he’d called him up anyway, unable to keep the news a surprise after selling off his hotel and spare furniture).

Nilesy holds in his hands, a collection of all the letters he’d ever sent Ravs; Nilesy’s own collection is in his inventory, kept safe in an indestructible lockbox bought from Sere–Sips. At the time, he didn’t think Ravs bothered, with so many letters he received on a daily basis.

He separates the letters from the book, packing them into the lockbox (next to Ravs’ own letters). The book sits in his inventory beneath the lockbox. He steals the rest of Ravs’ hot chocolate powder packs from their hiding place, plus the secret stash of rakk ale. He can’t bear anybody but Ravs or him coming across those other two treasures.

If Nilesy could take the Crooked Caber with him so that it’s safe too, he would, in less than a heartbeat.

He uses the back door as his exit, joining the queue to the lift for the Caustic Caverns. There’s less than fifteen people in line. He waves to Daisy (who’s reswaddling Clucky in a blanket; it pleases him to see that Clucky’s still wearing the hand-knitted cat hat he’d made), Peculiar hefting the shared language, about two boxes’ worth. The couple and their child vanish below ground level. Nilesy’s glad that the three are being wise about this; Clucky is a delight to babysit.

Zoeya switches places with someone to keep Nilesy company. He doesn’t feel up to talking, and neither is she. He appreciates what she did though. The queue dwindles until it’s just him holding it up.

“Come on, buddy, did you forget something?” The bandit in charge of the lift impatiently jiggles their leg, the gun strapped on their back clinking. “Hurry up!”

Nilesy shakes his head, stepping onto the platform–his eyes widen. “I forgot something,” He whispers.

Zoeya’s hand grabs the lift’s lever, to stop the bandit from pulling it down–too late, the lift begins to descend. Nilesy leaps up, grabbing the edge of the platform with his scrawny arms.

“Nilesy!” Zoeya shouts.

“Let go!” The bandit calls, holding both arms out wide. “I’ll catch you!”

“I forgot Elsa!” Trying not to look down, Nilesy swallows.

He kicks at the air. He can barely hold his own body weight; thinking of his poor cat meowing nonstop at the walls of his room, Nilesy grits his teeth. Muscles burning in his arms and shoulders, he heaves himself up and over the edge. Someone cheers; it’s probably Zoeya.

Catching his breath, Nilesy gets to his feet. He still has the back door key to the Crooked Caber. As he makes his way back, he passes bandit patrols taking up defensive positions along the town’s walls. 

The benefits to being as small and unobtrusive as he is means that even when he’s spotted, all he has to do is hold a clipboard and pretend he knows where he’s going.

Reaching his destination, Nilesy lets himself in, slipping to the one of stairs leading up to the second floor. Turpster, Saberial, Parvis, Sparkles, Martyn and the Toms aren’t present. The hologram’s gone from the counter as well. The bar is all but silent, save for the two guards grumbling about having to watch over their charge.

Nilesy breathes through his mouth, mind toying with the idea of freeing Daltos. Daltos could probably talk down his lot; he’d seemed honest enough about wanting to stop his bandits from attacking. Plus, it’d piss off Turpster. That’s all the reason Nilesy needs to spite the latter. But first, he has to retrieve Elsa.

The guards upstairs don’t bat an eyelid as Nilesy arrives on the second floor. The constant meowing behind the door tells him that Elsa’s still locked inside. Elsa happily winds around his legs when he slips in. He attaches a leash to her; he’s not up to carrying her all the way to the lift.

The second she steps out of the door though, her head quirks to look straight at Ravs’ bedroom. She sniffs the air. Tail flicking, Elsa changes direction from the stairs to trot along the landing. Nilesy attempts to coax her back; she continues, dragging him along.

“Elsa, no! We need to go downstairs!” He hisses. She ignores him, reaching Ravs’ door. The enamoured guards coo at her, patting her. She raises a single paw, batting at the door. Almost imploringly, she turns her head to stare into the nearest guard’s mask.

“Aw, maybe she wants to say goodbye to Daltos,” The guard jokes. Their buddy snorts.

“Maybe she does,” Nilesy carefully suggests. “She’s not gonna leave until she does.”

“Can’t hurt,” The guard says, shrugging. They lean against the wall. “Go for it, the door’s actually unlocked.”

Nilesy’s barely pushing the door open when Elsa wriggles between the gap and practically bounds inside, meowing frantic with excitement.

Settled on Ravs’ bed is Daltos. He’s resting on an elbow, chewing on an unlit cigarette while gloomily staring into space. He’d pushed all the fur blankets to one side, almost like he hates them. His pose would have been funny if Nilesy had felt like laughing. Elsa zooms towards Daltos, dragging her leash from Nilesy’s hand. With a single leap, she lands on the bed next to Daltos. She headbutts his arm.

“Elsa?” Daltos sits up, noticing her. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth, holding it away from her. Elsa purrs deeply, rubbing against his side. She’s acting like she knows him.

Nilesy closes the door so that the guards don’t catch on to his sidequest. The snapping sound drags Daltos’ attention from her to him. His expression turns faintly guilty. Nilesy’s exchanged less than fifty words with him in the past. That’d been during all those times Zylus dragged him to the bar for drinking, and when Nilesy was playing bartender. Daltos had always been incredibly civil to him, strangely so.

Yes, Nilesy remembers the role he’d played in giving up one of Sjin’s business cards to Ravs so that Ravs could go to Opportunity with Rythian and Teep. Between Daltos and Turpster, Nilesy much prefers the former. Turpster’s never been polite, even when ordering his daily dose of rakk ale to keep him from using his brain.

This is the first time they’ve been alone in a room. Elsa’s tinkling purrs continues, her tail winding in on itself. Daltos pats her. Her back arches underneath his hand. Elsa’s natural friendliness didn’t consist of  _ this _ behaviour.

“You know her?” Nilesy observes, surprised that he’d have some connection to a diamond cat.

“I know her through her owner,” Daltos responds, not looking at him. “Her original owner, that is.”

“Sjin?” Nilesy guesses. Saberial hadn’t hid that from him. Spite drives Nilesy to keep Elsa; besides, it seems that Elsa’s needs more attention that what Sjin could give her. Aside from endangering Pandora by opening a Vault and harming Nilesy’s friends in the process, that’s Sjin’s other notorious crime.

Daltos nods, despawning the cigarette. In its place is a dry pet treat (a kibble). feeding it to her. Elsa chirps in pleased delight, accepting the treat with gusto. “I’m not in cahoots with Sjin anymore, don’t worry.” That’s hardly reassuring. The reveal that his gang’s arriving had tarnished Nilesy’s opinion of him.

Nilesy’s protectiveness for Elsa overpowers his building wariness. He drifts closer to Ravs’ bed, not quite understanding Daltos’ stiff aloofness. The relationship between Sjin and Daltos is an ongoing mystery to everyone. Ravs didn’t pry, so Nilesy’s not going to either.

“Did you used to live in Oasis?” Daltos asks. Elsa pesters him for another treat, tail lashing left and right.

“Yeah,” Nilesy confirms. The question’s out of the blue. Elsa’s too heavy for him to simply snatch and run. For a diamond cat, Elsa weighs quite a hefty amount. “Why?”

“Your town nearly died because somebody cut off your water supply.” How Daltos knows doesn’t strike Nilesy as odd. He’d probably heard it through Ravs. Before Nilesy can say anything, Daltos confesses, “I dared Sjin to do it during a game. I’m sorry.” That’d explain his odd behaviour.

Nilesy’s heart barely constricts. He’d always–well, less, as time went on–wondered about why people did the things that they did, especially if they’re corporate tyrants. He’ll never get an answer, nor expect to ever get one that’ll satisfy him. He has his closure at last, albeit from an unexpected source.

“That was all Sjin, right? You don’t have to apologize since you didn’t do anything,” Nilesy logically concludes. Being logical doesn’t get rid of the background thoughts that include wanting to blame Daltos, however childish that is. In the end, it hadn’t exactly been him responsible.

“I basically dared him to.” Daltos lifts his head, guilt still racking his features.

“But it wasn’t your actions, it was his,” Nilesy firmly insists. “You didn’t choose to fuck over Oasis. Therefore, you’re not the one who’s guilty. He is.”

The guilt plaguing Daltos’ expression fades. Weariness remains, the same old tired look everybody else lets through when nobody’s around. Elsa settles on his lap, sprawling across him, all four of her limbs in the air. Daltos slips his hands underneath her, levering her off him onto the bed. She chirps in a form of protest, already back on all fours, waggling her butt and tail.

“Thank you,” Daltos graciously says, coiling Elsa’s leash in his hands. Before she can pounce, he distracts her with another treat.

“You can thank me by telling your bandits to stop their attack on Sanctuary Hole,” Nilesy proposes.

“I can do that.” Daltos hands Elsa’s leash to Nilesy.

“You couldn’t call your bandits earlier by using your device?” Nilesy tugs on the leash, pointedly telling Elsa to step off Ravs’ bed. She obeys, albeit with gingerly, her bright eyes staring at Daltos the entire time.

“Yeah, I think they blocked me,” Daltos scowls.

“Try mine.” Daltos accepts the ECHO device Nilesy hands him. “But do it quick, before Turpster–”

A click of a gun has Nilesy and Daltos whirling to face the open door. Elsa hisses, her ears flattening against her head. If her coat was made out of fur instead of diamonds, it’d be standing on end.

“Before I find out that you’re doing something very dangerous in letting this bandit contact his lot?” Turpster aims Law. Daltos protectively steps in front of Nilesy. “Give him back his device so he can go and hide downstairs with the other civilians, mkay?”

Daltos obeys, roughly shoving the ECHO device back to its owner. Nilesy takes it back, glaring at Turpster. Then, with Ravs’ words echoing inside his head, he steps in front of Daltos. Daltos gives him a look that basically asks if he’s lost his mind. “Let him talk to his bandits,” Nilesy boldly states.

“That’s not happening,” Turpster immediately says. “He’ll just tell them to attack so they can free him.”

“You don’t know that!” Nilesy can’t believe he’s defending Daltos. Neither is Daltos, going by his bewildered expression.

“I do, from experience.” Turpster never takes his eyes off Daltos. Elsa is spitting at this point, remaining on the bed. Nilesy’s tight grip on her leash is stopping her from clawing at Turpster; her extended claws are marking the floorboards.

“That’s experience with other bandits,” Nilesy points out. “From what I heard, Daltos’ lot is pretty reasonable.”

“They weren’t reasonable when they attacked Lynchwood,” Turpster argues.

_ “Attacked?” _ Daltos laughs, harsh and brief. “My gang never fired a single bullet. Yours did, when you hanged all those scouts who just happened to get lost and needed to ask for directions.”

“You killed bandits just because they got lost in your town?” Nilesy gazes at Turpster, deeply shocked.

“Disturbing the peace, as it was,” Turpster maintains. The truth is hard to digest. “They were planning to attack.”

“No, they weren’t.” Daltos sighs. “They just had orders to scout rival gang strongholds and get back to me, without causing civilian casualties in the process. I’d have shot them if they did cause trouble.”

“I still think I did the right thing,” Turpster continues, though he sounds less certain than previously. “And I still can’t let you meet your gang.”

“What if I passed on a message for him?” Nilesy volunteers. He startles when Law gets trained on him instead, his heart twisting in his chest from fear.

“Can’t do that either. You two sounded pretty chummy when talking back there.”

“You also sounded pretty chummy when talking to the trio who stole the power core.” Nilesy swallows so that his voice doesn’t shake. “And then claimed that you didn’t know that they were planning on stealing it.”

“Fine, maybe I did know that they wanted to steal it.” The fire’s back in Turpster’s voice. Turpster didn’t look thrilled to have the trio part of Rythian’s plan; the need for as many Vault Hunters to go overrode Turpster’s standing objections.

“Then why didn’t you  _ stop _ them,  _ sheriff?” _ Nilesy emphasises. He mock gasps. “Unless you made a deal with them?”

“I did it protect Sanctuary Hole!” Turpster’s heated voice rebounds off the ceiling, walls and floorboards.

“Or maybe it’s because you’re a fucking prick,” Daltos sarcastically mutters.

“You wouldn’t understand why I had to!” Turpster snaps, spit flying.

“Maybe it’s because you never bothered seeing what it’s like as a bandit!” Daltos responds, his words sharp, carving at Turpster’s composure.

“There’s nothing to see from your perspective!” Turpster cocks his pistol. Daltos curls his hands, shifting in preparation for if he really does shoot. He’s keeping Turpster’s aim solely on him.

“Excuse me.” Law faces Nilesy. He waggles the ECHO device clutched in one quavering hand. “If you shoot, then I send that voice clip of you confessing that you had something to do with Trottimus, Alsmiffy and Ross stealing Sanctuary Hole’s power core to Ravs. After Ravs is done with the Vault, he’ll come looking. If Daltos and I are dead, Ravs’ll never rest until he finds you. Do you really want to live on the run from him? Ravs can be pretty persistent when he wants to be.”

“You’re playing dirty,” Turpster accuses when it hits him that Nilesy’s intentions aren’t a bluff, his expression shifting to a squinty eyed realisation.

“Awfully hypocritical of you to claim that I’m playing dirty when you’re the one who bloody  _ cheated _ in the election!” Nilesy concludes his yelling, knuckles paling around the ECHO device.

“You  _ cheated _ in Ravs’ election? That’s  _ low.” _ Daltos whistles. That’s ironic, coming from a bandit.

“Is that why you helped Rythian find another power core? And behaved around Ravs? To absolve your guilt?” Nilesy rubs the salt further into Turpster’s sore spot, enjoying every second of it.

“Enough!” Turpster bellows. He holsters Law, sagging. “Let’s make a deal.”

“What kind of deal?” A devious glint’s crept into Daltos’ eyes.

“I let you talk to your bandits, and Nilesy doesn’t send anything to Ravs,” Turpster proposes, sulkily.

“How about you get down on your knees and lick my boots, and  _ then _ I’ll accept your proposal,” Daltos counters, vicious in all of his spite.

“Assuming you’re not planning on worming your way out of that too,” Nilesy adds, his tone daring.

Turpster chews his tongue, a vein bulging along his forehead where his hat’s slipped up. A filmy sheen of sweat runs its course down his face. With only two options to choose from (neither to his liking), there’s not much he can do. With a clink of spurs and metal, Turpster ungracefully sinks to his knees, sweeping his hat off. He lowers his head, hat tousled hair slicked with copious perspiration.

Daltos has a vindictive smirk curving across his face. Visibly cringing, Turpster swipes his tongue across the toe of one scuffed boot. He leaves behind a wet mark. He makes a face at the taste of dust. Before he can fully rise, Daltos offers his other boot to him.

_ “Both _ boots,” Daltos smugly says.

Glaring at him the entire time, Turpster gives the other boot the same (but rushed and sloppy) treatment. “Happy now?” He growls, fishing for a silver hip flask to chug from it.

“Very.” Satisfied, Daltos despawns Emperor. He mentions to Nilesy, “You should go underground, just in case I fail.” To Turpster, he mildly remarks, “You’d better not stop me from meeting my bandits, or else I’ll make you do worse than just lick my boots.”

Turpster has nothing to say aside from keeping up the glare, hate glittering in his eyes. Looking far too used to it, Daltos leaves the room. He pauses to hand Nilesy the rest of the kibbles he’d fed Elsa, in a half-full bag.

Elsa hisses at Turpster before following, tugging Nilesy along after her. A kibble bribes her, distracting her as Daltos heads towards the town’s barely open gate. Nilesy takes the bar’s back exit; Parvis’ two guards are gone from their posts on the second floor (presumably fleeing when Turpster decided to check in earlier).

The lift is going to take forever to return, so Nilesy finds himself a crate to sit on and wait. Elsa paces by his feet, silent and watchful, hardly straining at her leash. She does miss Daltos, looking comically forlorn at his absence.

Nilesy feeds her a kibble to distract her, chiding himself for being so doting (but she’s so precious and adorable). Upon closer inspection, the kibbles are intended for a dog. Elsa appears to accept almost any food (save for the specially formulated mineral feed Panda had sold to Nilesy). The chain for the lift clanks and begins to rotate. Nilesy is on his feet as the platform arrives.

Nilesy stares at the lone person standing on it. Zoeya nearly jumps out of her skin when she spots Nilesy. She gives a nervous wave and a weak grin.

“Hi,” She whispers. “Please don’t tell Saberial I came back to help.”

\--

– / / NOW PLAYING ECHO LOG. / / –

Elora: Daltos?

Trell: What’s this all about? You got some nerve contacting us after your gang’s on their way over.

Daltos: I know how it looks, and before you two say anything else, I want you to know that I didn’t order my bandits to attack Ravs and Turpster.

Trell: Sounds fake, but okay.

Elora: What do you want?

Daltos: You don’t have to believe me, but I need a favour.

Elora: What kind?

Trell: Yeah, depending on what it is, we’ll either tell you to shove it or else.

Elora: (That wasn’t very threatening.)

Trell: (Shut up, it was the best I could do on the spot!)

Elora: (No wonder why your intimidation rolls suck.)

Trell: (We do not mention the failed intimidation rolls outside of the game!)

Daltos: I need you to find Arsenal for me.

Elora: You don’t know where he is?

Trell: Sounds fishy.

Daltos: This isn’t a trap.

Elora: You know not to fuck with the couriers.

Trell: How’d you lose him?

Daltos: I’m worried about him. His last message told me to basically run, which isn’t like him.

Trell: Can we see?

Elora: Yeah, that doesn’t sound like him. He gets in fistfights with people who almost run over Boner (including Trell that one time).

Trell: (He gave me a black eye but forgave me when I brought him free kibbles.)

Daltos: There’s something going on at my frigate that I don’t like and aren’t aware of.

Elora: And you want us to check it out?

Daltos: You don’t have to since you don’t trust me, but do it for Arsenal–

Trell: Alright, we’ll go and check on Arsenal. No need to get all emotional and shit.

Daltos: I’m not getting emotional, I’m just pointing out that if you don’t do it, you’ll be really guilty when you find out that he’s dead or something. He likes you two, ever since you stopped squashing his painkillers and saved Boner.

Elora: WE GET IT!

Trell: WE GET IT!

Elora: ...Jinx!

Trell: …!

Daltos: When you find him, tell him that I’m at Sanctuary Hole.

Elora: Alright.

Daltos: Thank you.

Trell: (What a guy-OW, YOU PINCHED ME.)

Elora: (It’s called character development!)

Daltos: You know that your whispering’s really loud, right?

Trell: Is that all?

Daltos: I have one more message, but it’s for Arado.

– / / NOW ENDING ECHO LOG. / / –

\--

In Sanctuary Hole, the Bloody Bandits move under the cover of darkness. The power generators beneath the town are set to emergency mode. As they grind to a temporary halt, every bandit still within the town takes up positions along the top of the town’s bunker strength walls. Floodlights bolted into place swivel, scanning the skies and ground for the promised threat.

Restlessness itches across everyone’s scalps, scratching at primed nerves and leaving them all too alert. By the power core’s housing just beyond the main gate, Parvis, Turpster, Martyn, Saberial and the Toms wait. 

Saberial’s pulled out a pair of night vision goggles. It paints her world in neon green and pale whites. She briefly wishes Teep’s here; Teep is deep in the mountains with Lomadia. The two’s sniper nest overlooks Three Horns, including the town’s perimeters. 

With BebopVox absent, Saberial doesn’t have an advanced simulation to run with the information Daltos gave her on his lieutenants. She’s done her best. The rest is up to everyone, including her. She’s not facing her  clan until she returns victorious to avoid being mocked for failing. She also has Zoeya to return to.

By her, Parvis jiggles in the seat of his technical, fidgeting with his bandanna. He’s in full Bandit Lord regalia, donning a set of pauldrons, kneeguards, fingerless gloves, and bandaged his hands. His brute of an assault rifle rests in the half-open compartment beneath the gunner’s seat. His gunner and single support bandit keep jumping at every moving shadow, turret and gun rotating.

Turpster’s eyes dart left and right, as vigilant as Saberial is. Martyn doublechecks his own Law pistol for the umpteenth time; Saberial’s last minute maintenance instilled new life into the secondhand gun. It’d been Turpster’s predecessor's, passed onto Martyn once Martyn had returned Turpster’s (along with his proper sheriff badge).

Given the anxious and tense atmosphere, the scout screeching to a halt nearly gets a face full of buckshot from the three nearest Toms.

“Hold your fire, I’m a friendly!” The scout pants, leaning on Parvis’ technical.

“How can we be so sure?” Turpster interrogates. The barrel of his pistol flashes in the light of the moon.

“He’s wearing our colours,” Parvis interjects, a tad pointedly.  _ “And _ our gang’s insigwhatsit.”

“Insignia?” Martyn helpfully suggests. 

Turpster’s face hardly flickers. Compared to earlier when he found out that Parvis and Martyn are bandit rehabilitation buddies, no hideous shade of puce currently graces it.

“That’s the word!” Parvis leans out of his technical to extend a closed fist. He grins encouragingly at his scout. Martyn grins too, even if the semi-darkness is making all their lives difficult. “So, what’s the word out there?”

“We got company!” The scout reports, fistbumping Parvis. They finish with a grand flourish of fingers, matching Parvis’ own.

“You got any rough numbers?” Saberial lowers her night vision goggles, letting them hang from her belt. The scout nods, forwarding a crudely hobbled report to her. It’s riddled with spelling mistakes, but it’s readable. Her mouth sets. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome!” The scout’s dismissed; they scurry towards the town.

Turpster glances at her. That’s not the reaction he’d wanted. “Well, how’s it look?” He tentatively asks.

“Well, only a fraction of the gang’s arriving in Three Horns, based on the information Daltos gave me,” Saberial begins.

“You’d think that if he wanted to get the job done, he’d send his whole gang, not a few units,” Martyn muses out loud. “Assuming he’s behind the attack.”

“Or maybe he doesn’t think we’re worth the trouble,” Turpster says, his tone full of mocking derision. “I should have shot him when I had the chance–”

Parvis leans out of his seat to grab Turpster by the brim of his hat. “You leave him alone! You’ve been really mean to him, and he’s helped us more than you!”

“Let go of my hat!” Turpster grunts, twisting out of his grip. The two glare at each other. “I really hope I’m not about to regret not shooting him all those times.” He straightens his hat.

“If you shot him, Zylus is gonna kill you.” Parvis sinks into his seat, dropping the glare for worry.

“I didn’t shoot him!” Turpster sniffs. The gesture is too much like Lalnable that Parvis has to squint to check if it really is Turpster standing before him. Lalnable wouldn’t shift on the spot like he is, appearing to squirm like he has baby tadpole threshers in his boots.

“Sheriff, if you’ve compromised someone before proven guilty, I’m going to have to ask you to hand your badge over.” Martyn fixes Turpster with a steely look. Parvis discreetly checks that his bandanna’s not on too tight. He’s glad Sparkles isn’t here to rib him for developing another one of his puppy crushes.

“I, uh, wish you didn’t frame it that way, because that makes me sound bad. Really bad.” Turpster gulps. “I didn’t shoot him.”

_ “Sheriff.” _ Martyn must have learned one of Minty’s tricks for inciting cooperation, because Turpster sheepishly points over Saberial’s shoulder. Saberial uses her night vision goggles to spot a figure crossing the plains on foot. “You let Daltos out?”

“I told Parvis’ guards to get back to their posts! It’s not their fault if they left the door unlocked!” Turpster blusters. “It’s not my fault if he escaped!”

“Fix all spotlights on the far wall on Daltos, now!” Saberial ECHOS on the local channel. The fixtures on the furthest wall creak, beams of light swiveling. “Parvis, go get him!” The technical remains where it is, engine silent. “Parvis?”

“I heard you, and my answer is ‘no,’” Parvis crosses his arms over his chest and pouts, turning his nose high into the air. His two bandits snicker, elbowing one another.

“Why not?” Turpster splutters. “He’s going to doom us all if you let him reach his lieutenants!”

“Take back what you said about bandits never changing, and maybe I’ll think about going to get him,” Parvis hisses. When he shows no signs of moving, Turpster steps forward, reaching for his gun.

“Think of it like this: it won’t be Daltos who dooms us all, it’ll be you,” Martyn whispers to Turpster. Turpster blanches.

“I take back what I said about bandits never changing, so go get Daltos!” Turpster says in one rushed breath.

“What’re the magic words?” Parvis smugly asks, looking like he’s thoroughly enjoying milking the humiliation of an authority figure for all it’s worth.

“I’ll tell Lalnable!” Turpster hisses at him.

“Those weren’t the magic words, but they’ll do!” Parvis fumbles with the ignition. The technical takes off in a spray of dust and pebbles, rumbling off.

Unnoticed by those below, the mining rig fires. It lasts for five seconds before it ceases.

Beams of cutting light continue to track Daltos as he makes his way towards Sanctuary Hole’s furthest borders. On one side, Sanctuary Hole is hugged by mountains. On its other side, the mountains dip, becoming twisting canyons hiding treacherous crevasses.

As a geographical holograph, it looks like somebody had taken a circular cookie cutter to the ground at an angle, elevating the side closest to the Crooked Caber while depressing the opposite one.

Passing through the shield, the technical catches up to Daltos in no time. He doesn’t stop walking even when Parvis pulls up next to him. “Parvis, go back to the others,” He says without a sideways glance.

“Nah, man, I’m here to watch your back.” Parvis shakes his head. “I think you were right to talk to your bandits, and I really hope you can get them to not fight–”

“Didn’t Turpster send you here to get me?” Daltos interrupts, now looking at him. He seems surprised that Parvis doesn’t want to shoot him.

“He didn’t say ‘when’ to get you,” Parvis notes, sheepishly grinning. “I can get you after you do your talky thing.”

Daltos regards him carefully for a few moments. Parvis shrugs. “Thanks,” Daltos eventually says. “You should hang back, just in case.”

Watching from the technical (despite his gut fluttering like he ate bad meatloaf that’s about to throw a sick dance party of its own), Parvis watches him reach the plains. Daltos doesn’t have to wait long. Illuminated by the floodlights, it’s next to impossible to miss him.

If it hadn’t been for the battle over his beloved dam months ago, Parvis wouldn’t have recognized the low droning of engines that fills the sky. He backs the technical into a patch of comforting darkness. His two accompanying bandits know to shut up, just like in the raid on the Fridge. Barely ten seconds later, a volt of Buzzards touch down.

The floodlights split into four, one staying on Daltos. The other three land on the lieutenants meeting him. Arado yawns beneath their helmet, striding over. Barely a metre away, he stops to appraise Daltos. 

Parvis knows Arado; the other two, a Nomad and Bruiser, take some extra time for him to place. Bachem and Curtiss fill the space behind Arado. Both lack Arado’s reserve, appearing pleased to see Daltos. They seem a bit  _ too _ pleased, as with their lieutenants and unit.

“You’ve lost weight,” Arado finally comments, their voice neutral.

“You’ve gotten uglier,” Daltos instantly counters, his arms folded over his chest.

“And you’re as pissy as I remember,” Arado jabs.

“And you’re still wearing that shitty, ugly bucket of a helmet. It’s not even properly painted navy,” Daltos returns.

“Still wearing the same jacket? That thing fell out of bandit fashion over ten years ago–”

“I like the new hole in your head. Maybe you can hear better with it. Who did it? I want to congratulate them for beating me to it–”

“We didn’t come here to trade insults.” Bachem shoves into the conversation like he’s crushing people’s heads with his rocket launchers. “We came here to see if it’s true that you’re alive.”

“And I fucking am. I’m here to see if you’re really attacking Sanctuary Hole. If you are, there’s a change of plans.” Daltos looks at each of his lieutenants. None look away this time. “Let’s go home, and we’ll–”

“So, here’s the rub,” Curtiss laughs. “You ain’t  _ really _ in charge of us no more.”

“What happened to Arsenal?” Daltos trains his gaze on Arado.

Arado grins, tilting their helmet up to expose it. “He was too busy covering your ass so he didn’t cover his own so well, and you know what we we do to traitors.”

_ “Where’s Arsenal?” _ Daltos demands.

“Relax. We all know he’s special to you, so we took special care to keep him alive, just for you.” Arado spawns a gun, pointing it at Daltos’ chest. “Aren’t we nice? We learned from the best.” They drawl, knowing that it’ll enrage him.

“Then why’d you come here?”

“To fuck with you, but you actually being here’s like knocking two rakks down with one shot.” Bachem chuckles. “I can’t  _ wait _ to see the look on Arsenal’s face when we drag you back and shoot you in front of him.”

“Hey, we better draw lots to see who’s the lucky sod who pulls the trigger,” Curtis points out.

“We worry about that later,” Arado mildly says.

“And dunno if Arsenal’ll still be alive by then, he ain’t looking so good when I last saw him.” Bachem gives a cruel grin.

Curtiss shrugs. “If not, the look on Daltos’ pretty face’ll do.”

“So, you don’t want me back in charge, and if Arsenal’s not in charge, who’s in charge?” Daltos inquires, his voice dangerously soft, with a hint of an edge.

“Me,” Arado smugly states. Bachem’s face twitches, but he stays silent. Daltos concludes that the two must have agreed to disagree until later.

“You sure?”

“We definitely don’t want you around.”

“I see.” Daltos nods, once, as if to confirm the facts. His hand slaps the gun held to his chest away. The shotgun Curtiss is wielding snatched. Three precise blasts explode into the night. 

Curtiss kneels on the ground, screaming for a medic. Their arm lies a few metres away, a dark slickness painting the torn flesh where it’d been blown off. Bandits watching are riveted by the sight, mesmerised by the still twitching arm.

“That’s not fair, you can’t preemptively strike!” One of Curtiss’ bandits shriek. Another retrieves the limp limb, holding it at arm’s length.

“I’m not your Bandit Lord anymore, so I can do whatever the fuck I want, and that includes killing each and every single one of you traitors!” Daltos points the shotgun at Arado. “Especially you.”

“We’ll see about that,” Arado retorts, ringed by bandits who are closing in.

Parvis’ gunner thumps on the technical’s roof. “Parvis!” 

Startling out of his reverie from seeing an arm get blown off, Parvis slams his boot down on the accelerator. He swings the technical around, letting it gather speed by pressing down as hard as he can.

Bachem swings a rocket launcher down from a shoulder, aiming it at Daltos. A sawblade whizzes across the surface of the rocket launcher. It opens up a nasty gash across Bachem’s arm and coat. He grunts, turning the rocket launcher–the side of the technical power slides into him.

The Bloody Bandit sitting in the back thrusts a hand at Daltos while firing back with a pistol. Daltos takes it. He’s hauled up and away. He reloads the shotgun, pinching some from the ammo crate behind him. The technical speeds back the way it came, dodging rockets, missile and gunfire.

The shield admits them, closing with a ‘whoomp’. The reprieve lasts for about thirty seconds. In that time, Daltos glances at Parvis, who pulls off a U-turn. Parvis presses a hand to his ear.

“It failed,” He shakily reports via ECHO. “We’re at war with the Blitzkrieg Blighters.” There’s no blame in his voice.

A heartbeat of nothing but static meets him. Voices crackle, splattering his hearing. “We can see that!” That must be Turpster, who’s practically spitting fury. Fortunately, Parvis doesn’t plan on returning to the power core anytime soon.

“Positions!” Saberial broadcasts. “Incoming attack at–”

The ground shakes. Two volts of Buzzards making a pass dump a layer of bombs atop Sanctuary Hole. With the shield in place, the bombs harmlessly explode upon collision. White stars flash in the night sky, resembling a platoon of fireworks. Smoke curls upwards.

“Shield’s not gonna last forever if the generator’s in emergency mode.” Daltos’ voice reminds Parvis that this is really happening. How he can stay so calm has Parvis wanting to scream and ask him about what his secret is. “The power’s bound to run out at some point if it keeps getting hit like this.”

Parvis grips the steering wheel. “If we kill all your lieutenants, it’ll get the rest to stop and surrender, right?”

A pause. “It’s us or them,” Daltos says. This time, he sounds almost mournful.

There’s no answer Parvis can possibly give without sounding like a massive, insensitive prick who doesn’t know how to shut up, so he bites his tongue. Fighting his cowardice, he takes the technical and Daltos towards the battle’s epicentre.

\--

Far underground, Lalnable ignores the tremors as the battle of Sanctuary Hole rages on. What was once a central docking bay’s converted to a refugee housing zone. Civilians huddle at the edges, as close to the walls as possible. With every shake and distant boom, a few emit faint, distressed noises. 

The ten Bloody Bandits on guard shift, restless at hearing battle so close but being unable to join. One who’s leaning on a crutch (crafted out of sport stick and spare metal) swears under their breath. Their friend pats them on the shoulder pauldron, scanning the interior with a bored eye. A few sentries yawn, keeping silent.

Strippin lies prone on a medical stretcher, a hand braced over his eyes. The constantly flickering lights hurt his eyes, agitating his headache. His poor, sore brain’s groaning, wanting a bit of shut-eye that the battle won’t give him.

Benji rests against the stretcher. Down here, time didn’t pass that obviously. The air in the Caustic Caverns has the permanent, underlying reek of acid reminiscent of puke, combined with the frigid dampness of a cave. It makes for a welcoming environment concealing hidden threats. For now, the only life down here are a ragtag crew of bandits, a doctor, two railroad technicians and a bunch of frightened civilians.

“Can we turn off the lights?” Strippin mumbles.

Benji takes a few seconds to respond. “I don’t think we can.”

“Get me an eye mask or something, my headache’s not fucking off.”

“Want me to go and find Lalnable?”

“Yeah.” Strippin drags his goggles on, setting them to blackout mode. It helps, but the earlier ride through the rapid’s cracked them in places. It’s still better than nothing.

Benji leaves his position, threading his way through the crowded bay to find Lalnable. He finds him overseeing a corner of the bay behind a white curtain (consisting of a floral print bed sheet wrapped around metal poles taped together). Benji lifts aside the loose corner. 

Behind it, Lalnable’s attending to a fussing Clucky. Clucky’s whining, tiny arms and legs kicking. Clucky slaps Lalnable in the bruised face. He accepts the blow with no reaction whatsoever. Daisy grimaces as a kick lands on her wrist. Peculiar’s pawing through a ratty backpack for a soft toy and blanket.

Lalnable sighs, completing the check-up. “It’s probably just gas,” He tentatively concludes. Daisy thanks him, taking back Clucky. Lalnable moves past her, towards Benji. “How’s Strippin?”

“He has a headache,” Benji reports. “Do you have something that might help him sleep?” The lights sputter, taking a second longer to return.

“I think I can spare something,” Lalnable says, turning to rummage in a Dahl supply crate. He hands a capsule pack to Benji. Benji’js barely done putting them away when the screaming starts. Even with his eyes open, it’s like somebody’s pulled a black sack over his head. Fear that the roof’s going to cave in has him drop to a half-crouch.

“Everyone calm down, it’s just a blackout!” The Bloody Bandit closest to the cubicle shouts, through a rolled up newspaper they’d been reading.

Lalnable bumps into Benji. “Sorry,” He grumbles. All around them, the Bloody Bandits are trying to maintain control as people start to panic.

“Hold on.” Benji fumbles, finding the portable light hanging from his hip. He flicks it on, angling it at the ceiling.

The lone beam of light calms the panicked civilians. A few children sniffle and sob. Well, Strippin got what he wanted, albeit at the expense of everybody else. What would he do, in this situation?

Benji spawns a crate and a crowbar. The crate landing causes a few people to jump. Benji wedges the crowbar in, lifting the lid of the crate up and away. Peculiar takes the lid away, leaving it leaning on a wall. Clucky’s whines progresses to a baby’s telltale, distressed whimpering.

“Help me pass these out!” Benji passes an armful of portable lights to Peculiar. Peculiar carts an armful into the bay. Civilians gather around him, drawn to his offerings like a varkid to a ripe, flowering firemelon plant.

A few Bloody Bandits (with strobe lights strapped to their heads) help distribute the lights. As the panic abates, Benji packs the crate away. He keeps a few of the handy devices on him to hand to Parvis’ bandits who don’t have lights of their own.

The once dark bay’s immersed in the reassuring glow of a hundred or so bobbing lights. Once frightened kids toy with the lights, creating an erratic patterns, giggling and laughing. It’s heartwarming, to say the least.

Benji deploys a few workerbots, plugging in instructions. This would have been Strippin’s job. He lets the workerbots ascend, their powerful beams taking the place of the neon lights overhead.

“Good call,” Peculiar compliments when he’s back by Daisy’s side. A portable light’s clipped to his vest.

“I’m just doing what Strippin would have done,” Benji mumbles, humbled by the experience. “I should go and check on him.” He excuses himself when it looks like Daisy’s about to add her own compliment.

At the furthest door that the civilians had passed through, Benji searches for the bandit posted in this corner. He’d chatted to them briefly; they’d even helped carry Strippin’s stretcher in.

Their gun’s abandoned on the floor. Benji picks it up. It’s not like a bandit to abandon their gun like that. Benji’s unease grows. He gazes to the crates stacked by the massive doors. As his eyes adjust to the gradient between true darkness and the grainy semi-darkness, he spots a clawed hand.

It’s gone when he blinks. Benji’s hands lift the gun. If he strains his hearing, he can hear quiet crunching; he’s not as hard of hearing as Strippin is (he used to wonder how differently things would have turned out at Lynchwood, if he’d been the one falling into that cave). 

Benji steps around the crates, and is faced with a Rat tearing strips out of the dead Bloody Bandit’s chest. The Bloody Bandit probably didn’t even see their death coming; a slit’s drawn across their neck.

The Rat’s too engrossed in eating to care that they’ve been spotted. Benji’s finger almost closes on the trigger. Through the gun’s sights, the Rat’s head dip. They take another bite out of the dead bandit’s face. Blood stains their navy blue hood and mask.

If Benji fires, he’ll alert the other Rats and upset the civilians. If he does nothing, the Rats will decimate the rest of the Bloody Bandits, who have no idea that they’re all about to die. After that, it’ll be the civilians who suffer (including Strippin, Lalnable, Peculiar, Daisy and Clucky).

Benji deliberately jangles his crowbar, letting it knock against his toolbelt. The sound has the Rat staring at him. They hiss, crouching low to spring. Benji snaps on his portable light, shining it right into their mask. Screeching, the Rat falls back, clutching their face.

The nearest workerbot plummets, eliciting shocks and gasps from onlookers. It crashes down where Benji is. Bandits reign in the new tide of panic. A few rush (and hobble) to the scene.

As the debris settles, Benji waves them over. He hisses a warning to stay quiet, crouching behind his inert workerbot. The bandits glance at each other. Otherwise, they huddle closer.

“There’s Rats amongst us,” He whispers, pointing at the crushed Rat body beneath the workerbot’s underside.

“Lenny,  _ no,” _ One Bloody Bandit moans. They lean down, lifting Lenny’s ECHO device from their friend’s belt. “Rest in peace, you bugger.”

“We’ve done this before, we can deal with these Rats,” Another bandit whispers.

“There’s only nine of us now, and who knows how many Rats are here?” The one beside them points out.

Benji would love to point out that he’s here too, but that’s not going to be of much help. “Here, you should take this gun back.”

“Nah, man, Lenny’s always liked trains!” The bandit who’d taken the ECHO device chuckles. “Keep it. They’d be thrilled to know that an actual trainer’s got it.”

He’s a railroad technician, not a conductor but the difference seems to fly over the bandits’ heads. Benji remains silent. The Bloody Bandits chatter about this and that to him; none of them give away that he’s using sign language to convey his instructions.

As the Bloody Bandits disperse on their own mission, Benji aims his portable light at the ceiling. He flicks the switch, making his beam flash on and off, following a railroad technician’s secret code. He cuts the light, waiting.

A beam of light lands on the spot where his had been. Benji decodes the message within it before it too, cuts. Armed with dead Lenny’s gun, Benji hunches lower, pretending to repair the workerbot. He lifts a cable from a broken floodlight, plugging it in. Layers of duct tape ensures that the cable won’t slip off.

Parking his gun on a crate (because he needs the impression of appearing unarmed), Benji lets the workerbot return to the ceiling. He tugs his goggles down over his face. People ignore the work he’s doing. Carefully, he floats each workerbots into position, lining them up with the dead neon lights. In his peripheral vision, a humanoid shadow unfurls from a loosened ground vent. Step by step, it stalks him. It pauses to twerk in anticipation, behind his back.

Closer, Benji mentally urges. The Rat springs. Mid-spring, Benji initiates a power surge via the workerbots. The revived lights flood the bay.

All the blinded Rats caught in it shriek. Unable to see as well, the civilians react by screaming, shoving, pushing and massing towards the bay’s enormous and closed doors. A few Rats get crushed in the stampede.

Benji swings his crowbar into the Rat’s head. It decimates the Rat’s mask, crushing it. He brings it down again; he closes his eyes as the death blow connects, imagining the string keeping the Rat alive snapping. He cracks his eyes open, removing his crowbar. A brief shake dislodges the loose viscera clinging to the curved end.

Grabbing Lenny’s gun, Benji sprints to Strippin’s stretcher. Blinded people cut across his path, forcing him to dodge. Every collision nearly knocks him over. Benji staggers into the private space holding Strippin’s stretcher.

The upturned stretcher’s empty.

A heavy hand lands on the back of his neck. Benji’s wrenched up and back by the collar. A bloody crowbar’s thrust into his face. Familiar eyes squint at him.

“Benji!” Strippin lets go of him. The chaos has reinvigorated him; Benji searches his pockets, finding the pack of meds. Strippin takes one, keeping the rest in a pouch on his belt. “Thanks for the heads-up about the lights.”

Past Strippin, a dead Rat’s pinned to the wall by a massive track bolt. It’s gone straight through their head. Another dead Rat with pulverised brains rests by them.

Benji guilty glances over his shoulder at the civilians pressing against the doors. Gunshots crash into silence as the Bloody Bandits open fire. 

“We gotta find Lalnable!” Benji shouts. Strippin nods, not having the energy to argue.

With Strippin in tow, Benji finds Lalnable’s corner. One of the sheets is torn. Inside, Lalnable is rocking back and forth on a crate, trying to calm a wailing Clucky. Benji takes one step forward, and is stopped by a Jakobs shotgun aimed at his face.

“Benji!” Daisy doesn’t lower the shotgun, keeping it level with his face as it swings to the side. 

Strippin waves a hand. He almost collapses onto another crate; the walk from his stretcher must have taken everything he’d had. He still hangs onto his gun.

Lalnable passes the squalling baby to Benji. Benji nervously adjusts his hold to accommodate the tiny being’s form. He’ll never get used to babies. Clucky continues to cry loud enough to wake the dead. The constant screaming and burst of gunfire on the other side of the bay’s not helping.

“Where’s Peculiar?” He asks Daisy.

“Went out to help,” Daisy answers. “But we need to do something. We’re all practically penned in here.”

“What should we do?” Benji momentarily watches Lalnable take Strippin’s vitals. 

Two Bloody Bandits dash past, chasing down a lone Rat. The Rat tries to claw one bandit’s face; they fend it off with a shotgun, clubbing the Rat in the chest. Benji turns his head away as the Rat falls. The Bloody Bandits confirm the death before moving on.

Daisy and Benji watch blood ooze on the metal floor. “Hey, is it just me, or do none of the Rats carry guns?”

Benji’s mind delves into the past. She’s right. He hadn’t seen a single gun drop from the killed Rats. “What does that mean?”

“It means that they likely didn’t want to attract attention,” Lalnable observes.

“Well, that failed,” Strippin mutters. He winces when the soaked bandage on his shoulder’s peeled off. It’s replaced with a fresh one. He starts to button up his shirt again.

“They must have some other reason for coming here.” Benji racks his brain, as do the others. He flags down a Bloody Bandit. The Bloody Bandit limps over. Daisy relays the observation as Lalnable disinfects their scratched leg.

“Back when our dam was under siege, Daltos sent Rats to try to take out us from the back.” The bandit scowls. “They did a fuckton of damage, mostly by wrecking our generators and picking us off one by one.”

“They might be after the power generators underneath Sanctuary Hole.” Lalnable points to the ceiling.

“That’s why they came in through here! Sanctuary Hole’s shield doesn’t go underground!” Daisy grimaces.

“And they might be after our reinforcements!” The Bloody Bandit yanks down their pant leg. “I gotta tell Sparkles and Parvis!”

The screaming’s faded to a frightened murmur of voices. It’s almost reassuring, minus the fearful tones in use.

Benji notes how Clucky’s also silent. He glances down at the baby in his arms. The baby’s sniffling, mouth slightly open to chew on a thumb. Babies usually stared at whoever’s holding them. Clucky’s blue eyes are fixated on a point past his shoulder. He cranes his head up, forcing his eyes to follow Clucky’s gaze. A Rat is crouched atop the metal frame of Lalnable’s medical station.

The Bloody Bandit and Daisy open fire at the same time. The Rat springs up. Gunfire slams into the wall, shredding the frame. The destroyed frame clatters. The Rat lands, claws extended to slash in the cramped space. They’re aimed at Lalnable, who’s frozen. Throwing himself off the crate, Strippin crashes onto the Rat, his bruised elbow slamming down in a crude pin.

Wheezing like a deflated balloon, the Rat rakes a claw down Strippin’s arm. “Fuck!” Strippin curses, accidentally letting the Rat squirm free.

The Bloody Bandit falls to their knees as a claw pierces through one of their legs. They scream. Daisy blasts her shotgun at the Rat. The Rat ducks; a supply crate takes the hit. Benji covers Clucky with his own body, turning his back on the fight.

His shield shimmers as speeding plastic shards scratch their way to freedom, foiled by his body. With one hand, he grabs his own shield, transferring it to Clucky. Clucky’s inquisitive hands grasp the shield. Curious gums chew on one blunt edge.

Benji grins before he’s decked in the head. The Rat grabs him by the back of the shirt. A hand tries to pry Clucky from him. He hangs onto Clucky, curling his body in his best impression of a limp, dead weight.

The Rat simply impales a pointed finger into the back of his hand. Benji screams at the eruption of pain, hot like a metal rod that’s been sitting in the sun for days. Nothing’s in his arms by the time he slams into the floor.

Daisy’s shriek of rage elicits surprised crying from Clucky. Prone on the floor, Benji can only hear the Rat’s fleeing footsteps and Daisy chasing after them. The remainder of the Bloody Bandits arrive.

It’s too easy to count the missing bandits amongst those still alive. Benji tries not to think about it, letting himself get helped up. When he’s back on his feet, he tries to take a step. Someone steers him to a crate, making him sit.

He stands once Lalnable’s done bandaging his hand. Gripping Lenny’s gun makes his hand spasm with a hot ache that keeps lingering. 

Strippin’s barely awake. Someone’s moving his stretcher in. He catches Benji’s eye, then drops into a faint. In the commotion, Benji slips away.

Picking up the trail’s easy; all he has to do is follow the erratic line of gunfire raking the corridors at random intervals. It loops around, upstairs, leading him to the graveyard of rusty train tracks outside.

Past the egg-shaped swells of collapsing spiderant colonies (their expanding colonies capable of halting entire train lines), past the pointed, upside-down, organic-looking cones of varkid hives (boy, how he and Strippin had fun that day at the Tundra Express), past the hollow tunnel at the end and onto the railroad bridge that leads nowhere, Benji patiently continues.

Iron fills his nose for a second, overpowered by the telltale burn of acid. The dizzying height of the bridge elevates him at least a hundred metres above the ground. The pain swims in and out of his head, a constant tease.

He finds a shotgun abandoned by a giant pool of blood. The pool of blood’s disturbed, the mad dance of footprints leading along the bridge. Benji leaves the gun where it is, conserving his strength.

In the distance, the Rat holds Clucky aloft above Daisy. Daisy’s on the ground, the Rat pressing a filthy boot to her face. They’re pressing down with all their scrawny strength, keeping her away. Her blond hair and sun dress is streaked with red, teeth grit with unmatched fury. The nails of both hands are stained red, as with the Rat’s tattered arm sleeves.

Clucky’s pink, tear-stained face is scrunched in terror, mouth wobbling from the effort of crying. Tiny hands curl around Benji’s shield. Bootied feet lash in vain at thin air. The Rat spots Benji. Clucky’s hoisted higher into the air. They lean towards the drop overlooking the acid pools that give the Caustic Caverns its distinctive name (and odour).

The Rat’s voice is a strained wheeze tiredly pushing out of their gas mask. “You come any closer, and I’ll drop the baby in,” They warn over the wailing. “You want that?”

Daisy renews her attempts to rescue Clucky, snarling. The Rat keeps her pinned with their boot. “Give me back my baby, you–” The boot moves to smother her nose and mouth; Daisy exhales, fuming. Her nails bury into the dirt beneath her.

“You let me go, and I won’t harm the baby.” The Rat’s proposal is met with a foiled shove from Daisy. “First, drop your gun.” Benji obeys, letting Lenny’s gun drop. It lands atop a track. He kicks it back. “Now crawl over here, and get this lady off me.” He limps over, keeping his eyes from following the moving dots on his radar, metering his time.

Benji hauls Daisy to her feet, keeping a solid grip on her arms; weaponized, her glare could have melted the Rat on the spot. The Rat makes a show of lowering the baby, dropping into an exaggerated bow. Daisy tugs at Benji’s hands.

Before Clucky’s fragile back can touch the bridge, the Rat swiftly tucks the baby into their bandolier, dropping to all fours. The Rat scuttles back across the bridge, away from Benji and Daisy. Daisy shoves at Benji. He joins her, tearing after the escaping bandit.

The Rat tries to slow down, dragging a hand into the dirt. Standing at the tunnel’s entrance is Peculiar. He points Daisy’s dropped shotgun at the Rat. The Rat pushes aside their bandolier as Peculiar takes aim; he doesn’t fire, shutting his eyes.

Laughing, the Rat moves to slash him as they pass. Gasping, Peculiar drops, gashes opening up along his chest and arms. Daisy makes a sound akin to a boiler splitting apart. She  _ speeds _ up, boots thumping like thunderclaps.

Eager to avoid her wrath, the Rat turns and is met by Lalnable. Lalnable holds Lenny’s gun; his quavering hands aren’t in the right places, but his index finger is. The unexpected recoil has him grunting, staggering.

In slow motion, the fan of bullets leave the gun’s barrel. The Rat’s body arches backwards as they try to escape the spread, spindly legs kicking at the ground. The bullets bite into one of the Rat’s legs; it’s like watching a racehound trip, skidding off the track. The Rat slides off the bridge.

Clucky’s ejected from the Rat’s bandolier. The Rat and Clucky plummet towards the bubbling, popping lake of bright green acid below. 

Peculiar’s riveted by the sight of Daisy swan diving off the bridge. “No!”

Her dress flutters around her bruised knees. The shield pinned to her belt rattles as air whooshes past. Benji and Lalnable peek over the edge; they both have the same idea. Neither want to be the witness to the three’s deaths, but they have to, if only to tell Peculiar what happened.

The Rat’s struggled onto a patch of dry land. Acid strips the flesh from their bones with all the finesse of a butcher with no skill. Ragged, growing holes expose stringy muscle. Not even bone is safe, acid continuing to lick away, right down to the bandit’s marrow until something barely human is left kneeling on the island, still screaming.

Benji disconnects his gaze.

Lalnable’s sitting on the tracks, wiping his eyes. Lenny’s gun is abandoned by him. “She’s gone, with Clucky.”

Peculiar’s distressed sobbing wrenches Benji’s heart to the top of his mouth. It’s the sob of a man who’s just lost everything, a sound that Benji is familiar with (he’d heard it before, on the day Pandora claimed him and Strippin). His hearing picks up on distant screaming. It’s not the civilians; the civilians are below, underneath layers of packed dirt and thick metal. Benji strains, trying to determine what it is. 

“Can you hear that?” Benji rasps.

“I can.” Lalnable tilts his head, trying to pinpoint the source with Benji.

“It’s coming from under us.” Benji doesn’t make the connection until a shape streaks past him and Lalnable. The rotund shape slows; at the top of its arc, it starts to descend. Peculiar is sitting directly underneath it.

He screams as the shape collides with him, pinning him to the bridge. A bewildered Daisy pants, Clucky safe and sound in her arms. Peculiar buries his face in her shoulder, wrapping both arms around the two.

“Can you explain what happened? Why aren’t you dead, like them?” Lalnable points to the dead bandit who’d suffered a painful and humiliating death.

“It’s hard to believe, but I landed on a giant acid bubble and it popped.” Daisy coos at Clucky. At the sound of her voice, Clucky hesitates in crying before falling silent, balefully sniffling. Pleased, Daisy kisses Clucky on the head before doing the same to Peculiar. 

Lalnable turns to Benji, quietly whispering, “Not to ruin the mood, but we need to let Saberial know what happened.” Benji agrees while fretting about Strippin’s state. If Strippin’s condition worsens, he’s not sure how long he’ll last while hiding in the Caustic Caverns.

\--

In the mountains, Lomadia does her best to remain still. Her own face wrappings trap the heat around her face, also preventing the telltale puffs of air from forming whenever she breathes. She’s not that foolish as to ignore Teep’s advice to ‘dress warm like you’re a winter model on a Triton runway’. Her goggles sit snug on her face, the HUD minimised for the time being.

Once she’d dressed appropriately, Teep directed her to the town’s Quick Change Station. Lomadia picked a suitable ‘skin’, watching as Teep cycled through their own selections. There’d been the tiniest pause as Teep’s clothes adopted a bright pink palette. An outfit with a cute dinosaur pattern (almost like a onesie) flashed by before Teep stepped back, shaded in paler tones.

“What? Those were my pjs,” They’d signed without shame. Lomadia suppressed an amused snort.

Following a lengthy trek, Teep led her to one of their weapon caches buried in the snow. Lomadia had dug for ten minutes before her shovel found a Dahl crate. Together, they’d dragged it up before emptying it of ammo and supplies. She’d taken most of the ammo, packing back the rest of the supplies. 

Worryingly, Teep kept climbing the mountain. They eventually stopped at a rocky shelf overlooking Sanctuary Hole and Three Horns. A frozen abyss separated the two from the other side.

Briefly sheltered by the rocks, she and Teep performed the last maintenance on their sniper rifles. She didn’t rush, taking her time to calibrate her beloved Jakobs sniper rifle, Skullmasher. Her other sniper rifles undergo the same treatment.

Even down one functional hand, Teep still completed theirs before hers. That might be because they chose to calibrate only one sniper rifle. She doesn’t know if they plan to use it at all. During her lessons, Teep stressed the importance of using both hands when shooting, for optimal stability and support.

She can only hope that she can live up to Teep’s lessons and expectations. A volt of Buzzards battle the mountain winds, carrying another batch of reinforcements. Teep and Lomadia stay low; far below, a second volt drops off a unit before leaving.

Lomadia observes through her rifle’s scope. Each of the bandits carry sniper rifles, preparing for battle. As the bandits settle in (none the wiser to being watched), Teep raises a hand.

A red mark paints one faraway bandit’s goggled head. Lomadia lies flat on her stomach, breathing in, and out. She scores a perfect headshot. Teep touches her arm, moving ahead. Snow swirls around her as she follows.

The dead bandit’s barely turning blue when they’re discovered. By then, Lomadia’s eliminated three more. Sequestered in their own alcove, the bandit lieutenant watches the mountain across from them, waiting for the mystery sniper (or snipers) to reveal themself.

\--

Parvis’ technical rolls through a hazy smoke cloud. He coughs, his nose and mouth burning. His goggles are too dust smeared to bother pulling on; his bandanna the most stained it’s ever been, with his own sweat. Driving through the carnage’s unreal.

His own battles have never been so  _ wretched. _ The worst part is that he can’t tell who’s winning; there’s just endless crimson red and navy blue, swept across the plains like somebody’s dropped a boxful of pins on a map.

It’s getting to him. Parvis lets the technical’s souped up engines ground him, the steering wheel slick under his hand, the accelerator pressing back against his boot, suspension lurching as the technical power slides on a bit of gore or a dead body. It’s all he can do; getting out and fighting in this war is suicide, and yet, here he is, in the thick of it.

“Rocket, get out!” His gunner screams. Parvis looks up. His wide eyes reflects the telltale wings of a rocket before it explodes in front of the technical.

The technical flips. Parvis ends up trapped by the driver’s protective frame, long limbs uncomfortably caged in. He’s on his now throbbing side; the technical’s ploughed into the ground at an awkward tilt, spewing smoke from the turret and engine. Plips of motor oil leak past Parvis’ boots.

His gunner’s already dead, impaled on someone’s broken bayonet. His rear guard’s knocked unconscious, curled up in a miserable heap. Parvis is about to call out when Bachem clunks through the smoke. Parvis claps his own hands to his mouth, staying quiet, even as Bachem brings the end of the rocket launcher down.

The rear guard’s skull spills pinkish grey, and they stop breathing. Parvis remembers their birthday, their favourite letter (‘g’), their favourite colour (blue, like the sky on a cloudless day), their favourite song–he stifles a terrified sob.

Bachem finds who he’s looking for, face lighting up in a grin. Parvis belatedly remembers his last passenger. Through a gap in the frame, he sees Daltos.

Daltos is already picking himself up off the ground; he staggers back, face paler than usual, chest heaving. He draws a pistol, aiming it at Bachem.

“Hey, I found him!” Bachem laughs, gesturing to someone who Parvis can’t see. Arado steps into the view a few moments later, carrying a rifle. Daltos’ pistol switches to him.

“So, you think buddying up with Parvis will get you out of this.” Arado’s mildly surprised tone is accompanied by a searching look. It sweeps over the technical’s remains. Parvis hunches lower.

“And you think teaming up with Bachem’s a good idea.” Parvis notes with dismay that Daltos sounds winded.

“I get half the territories, and Arado gets the other half,” Bachem smugly reveals.

“You sure that’s all you’re getting?” Daltos points out. “I wouldn’t put it past fuckface to pull a fast one on you when your back’s turned.”

“Arado’s not that stupid,” Bachem says. “Not when I got Fairey posted up in the mountains with a bomb strapped to them.”

“You  _ didn’t,” _ Arado flatly says, turning to Bachem. “You told me that Fairey  _ chose _ to play shitty snipers.”

“They did choose to play, right after I rigged them to blow,” Bachem points out.

“See what I mean?” Daltos shakes his head like he’s struggling to pay attention. One of his hand’s slipped underneath his bandolier to lie flat on his chest; Parvis wonders if he has a preexisting medical condition. “You can’t trust a guy like Bachem who goes strapping a bomb to your best friend, all to get what he wants–”

“Like you’re one to talk,” Arado snaps. “You went running off with your ex and left us in the lurch, big time.”

“I was planning on coming back,” Daltos says.

_ “Was,” _ Arado retorts. “Did you change your mind after you started fucking Zylus?”

Parvis steadily breathes through his intertwined fingers. He has to guess what Daltos’ expression is, the angle of the technical’s stopping him from seeing his face.

“Not true,” Daltos eventually says. “I was getting something from him.”

“What, Ravs ain’t never good enough?” Arado snorts. “Sjin was right. You’re  _ never _ satisfied, even when you got everything.”

“Sjin doesn’t know skagshit about what it takes to satisfy me, even if he could read my mind,” Daltos scowls. “Whatever he’s been telling you, it’s all a big lie.”

“He wasn’t lying about you wanting off Pandora.” Arado sounds thoughtful. “That explains all the random repairs to the frigate.”

“So much for improving our lives,” Bachem mutters.

“What’s Zylus got that’s so important to you?” Arado flicks a fleck of blood off their jacket. “Better answer right, ‘cause Arsenal didn’t.”

“Zylus doesn’t have it anymore.” Daltos laughs. It sounds forced. “It’s gone.”

“Gone?”

“He got rid of it after he left me.”

“That ain’t making any sense. You could have came back to us if he didn’t have it.”

“I’ll tell you why I stuck around. He owed me a fucking apology.”

“You hooked up with him for months, just to get an  _ apology?” _

“You’d want an apology too if it was the guy who wrecked your entire life.”

“Can’t say I do.” Arado shrugs. “But it sounds like you’re pretty attached to Zylus, after all that time you spent with him.”

“Yay, you’ve figured out my biggest secret, so I get to share yours,” Daltos sarcastically says.

“You wouldn’t. You  _ promised.” _ Whatever it is, Arado’s backpedaling, all the visible skin that’s not scarred under their helmet paling.

“You didn’t leave me any choice,  _ Bob,” _ Daltos says, clearly enjoying the moment.

Arado lobs their gun over one shoulder, where it clacks against their back. They flip a knife from their belt, stalking over to Daltos. Daltos shoots Arado; Arado sidesteps the shot, gripping Daltos’ wrist. They twist the gun out of his hand, kicking it. It skids away, hitting the technical’s frame. Parvis doesn’t dare move, not even to grab it, hunching as small as he can possibly go. 

Letting go, Arado punches Daltos in the ribs. It knocks Daltos back; Daltos receives another punch. This one hits him in the face, drawing blood.

Daltos is now in view, dropping to his hands and knees. He’s dry heaving, gloved hands curled into tight fists. His head’s almost touching the ground. Blood pours from his mouth and face. A kick from Arado has him clutching his chest, gasping.

Arado crouches. “What else did Zylus do to you, aside from softening you up?” They receive a glare. Chuckling, Arado settles on top of Daltos’ chest, straddling him. Daltos swings at him; with no real power or speed behind it, Arado brushes it off with a slap. They take hold of Daltos’ chin, turning his face left and right. He starts to try to buck Arado off. “Hey Bachem, hold him still.”

“Yeah, alright.” Bachem lets out a raucous laugh, joining Arado. With his rocket launchers forming an ‘X’ across his back, he pins down Daltos’ arms. Daltos spits in his face; Bachem casually squeezes both his arms until he’s grimacing. “If it weren’t for what Arado’s planning, I’d break your fucking arms for what you did to my fingers.”

“At least you can see which finger’s what so you can finally count up to five,” Daltos mutters. Bachem exerts more pressure until Arado dryly looks at him. Bachem loosens his grip.

“Since you like Zylus so much, why don’t you match him?” Arado twirls the knife in one hand. Their other hand moves up and over Daltos’ face. Fingers latch onto the right hand side of his face. Daltos’ right eyelid is pried open with two fingers to expose his eye.

Whistling merrily, Arado starts cutting.

It doesn’t conceal the sound of Daltos’ painfully sharp exhale, or the low, choked off sounds of pain. Parvis can see him twisting and turning, still fighting to escape; Arado and Bachem keep him trapped.

Parvis’ back, arms, shoulders and legs are so sore from being curled up in a ball for so long. He checks his radar for help,  _ anyone _ .

Sparkles is busy with the secret plan, Kogie and Leo are holding the fort at Sanctuary Hole, and everybody else Parvis know is off to the Vault, Elpis or guarding the power core. There’s nobody but him around.

“Hey, where’d you reckon Parvis went?” Arado stops whistling to ask.

“Well, he ain’t around to help Daltos,  _ that’s _ for sure.” Bachem chuckles. “He probably ran off like a little fucking coward–” He never finishes that sentence because Parvis blows his brains out from behind.

Arado springs back as Bachem’s corpse topples forward. At the last second, Daltos rolls out of the way, into a crouch.

Parvis opens fire on Arado, strafing to keep them in sight. Arado despawns the knife, using a pistol to shoot back. While they’re distracted, Daltos tackles them, knocking the helmet off. Parvis ceases fire straightaway.

Arado and Daltos roll around on the ground, trading blows; blood from Daltos’ face flecks Arado’s gnarled face, the ground, their clothes, anything within reach. Arado flails an empty hand, behind Daltos’ head; they drive that hand down at Daltos’ back.

Daltos’ whole body shudders when he exhales, around the knife in his back.

“Gotcha.” Arado starts to laugh. The bottom of a filthy, peeling boot crashes onto their face, stopping the laughter. Arado yells, spewing vile swears; Parvis lifts his boot up, hauling Daltos off them.

Arado gets to their feet. Blood gushes from their broken nose. “You little shit, I’ll fucking carve you into pieces and–”

“Fuck off,  _ Bob!” _ Parvis screams. He lifts his rifle, feeling its rattling pulse as he fires at Arado.

Arado’s hit in the arm, chest and shoulder; they fall, behind the technical. Parvis reloads the gun out of habit. He drops to examine Daltos.

Daltos is sitting up, about to pull the knife out. 

“Leave it!” Parvis snaps at him.

“Why? I gotta pull it out later anyway.” Daltos’ voice lacks his usual timbre. His hand drops from the knife in his back.

“This isn’t the time for dick jokes!” Parvis passes his gun to Daltos so that he has both hands free to find a medkit. “Don’t move.”

Taking it, Daltos scans the battlefield, turning his head; when he does, Parvis is faced with the damage Arado caused. The building nausea causes what Parvis calls during his daredevil stunts a ‘gutquake’. It’s like his gut’s sending everything back, food and no food.

Parvis fashions a wreath of tightly wrapped cloth using almost all the bandages in the medkit; it’s a sorry waste, but it’s all he can remember off the top of his head. He tapes it to Daltos’ back after tucking both the wreath’s ends around the wound and stuck knife. Nearly the rest of the bandages form a soft padding of sorts, to cushion it against jostling.

Daltos doesn’t look pleased in the slightest to have a reminder of Arado’s treachery impaling him, but he puts up with Parvis’ emergency first aid without complaining. Next is the eye.

Parvis mops up as much blood as possible with the sterile pads. The slit along Daltos’ eye refuses to stop. After a few seconds of trying, Daltos brushes Parvis’ hand aside.

“Leave it, it’s not going to stop until it wants to.”

“But it’s still bleeding!”

“Just bandage it up.” Daltos’ other eye fixates on him. Caving, Parvis does so, staunching the bleeding as best as he can. It consumes the last of the bandages. Barely thirty seconds after he ties it around Daltos’ head, it’s turning pink. “It’ll do.” The firm insistence isn’t calming at all. “Let’s go.”

Parvis sets him on his feet. Daltos hands back Parvis’ gun, swaying gently on the spot. “We need to take you to Lalnable!”

“Not until every single traitor’s fucking dead,” Daltos mutters, in a strained voice.

“Let other people deal with them!”

“This is  _ my _ mess, and I’m going to fix it.” Daltos moves towards the downed technical. Parvis blocks him, dancing into his path.

“What’s the point? They’re all just going to kill us anyway!”

“I’d rather go down fighting than doing nothing,” Daltos snaps. With one step, he’s bypassed Parvis to crouch by the technical. 

As Daltos rewires the technical, Parvis forces himself to find his rear guard’s and gunner’s corpses. His rear guard’s shield and the two dead bandits’ ECHO devices are retrieved (and Parvis has a sick, harrowing feeling that he’ll end up with a lot more of those by the end of the battle). The shield’s handed to Daltos, seeing as he lost his own when the technical died.

Daltos’ attempt to revive the technical ends in him sighing, and a miserable whine from the technical’s busted engine. Coming to the rescue, Parvis spawns a Stingray, streaked with dark orange and splashes of a brilliant red that almost matches his bandanna.

“Where did you get that?” Daltos wonders out loud.

“Courier,” Parvis mumbles. “Get on, I’ll give you a lift. You shoot, I drive.” Daltos doesn’t argue, settling behind Parvis. The Stingray thumbs, itching to move. On any other day, Parvis would be well on his way to Elpis at how close Daltos is. “Hang on tight!”

\--

The shield surrounding Sanctuary Hole’s not impenetrable; vehicles and aircraft pass through it. Kogie and Leo hold the line on the town’s walls. For every Buzzard that slips past, a floodlight catches it, tracking its movements so that the Bloody Bandits can destroy it.

The Bloody Bandits posted along the perimeter fire homing rockets. Homemade catapults lob incendiaries and tesla grenades into the fray. Flashes of activity mark where the battle is in full swing.

By the power core, Turpster unloads Law on the nearest bandit. Already, lifeless bodies litter the ground on the far side. Casualties pass through the entrance via technicals, to be unloaded and ferried to the safety of the underground Caustic Caverns.

A stray bullet nicks Turpster’s face, eliciting a brief pulse from his shield. Heart straining to keep up with the adrenaline rush, he reloads from a torn ammo box. Who’d left that? Saberial? Martyn? His world right now consists of shoot, don’t get shot, and mind the power core.

Around the other corner is Martyn. Martyn’s Toms are scattered throughout Sanctuary Hole, helping with its defense. Most stay by the gate, repelling pushes to take it. A few stick by their sheriff, unwilling or unable to leave him; Turpster could use a loyal following like that. He could do with people to watch his back right now, his paranoia levels the highest it’s ever been.

“Oi, Tom!” Turpster addresses the nearest Tom, a burly figure with a tangled beard.

“My name’s not really ‘Tom’, it’s ‘Keith’, but Martyn calls us all ‘Tom’ anyway, just to make things confusing,” A bald Tom says. They adjust their stolen hat (sporting child’s windmill toy on top), which is perched on their cowboy hat.

“What about you?”

“Bree!” A Tom (wearing a tin foil hat) besides them lobs a grenade into a rogue technical. It explodes.

“What’s the point of having an army of people called ‘Tom’ if you’re all not named that?” Turpster finishes reloading Law.

“Ask Martyn!” The drawly Tom (with a beanie tacked to their cowboy hat) says, grunting as their shotgun bursts, nailing a bandit in the back. The shot bandit doesn’t rise.

“We need someone to check on the power core’s energy level!” Turpster could have turned around to check. Spotting a familiar face hurrying across the battlefield distracts him.

They occasionally tripping on rubble or a body strewn on the ground. A diamond cat threads between the feet of warring bandits, claws darting in and out to rake at vulnerable ankles and shins. The pit in Turpster’s stomach yawns, taking with it his rationality.

“Pardon me, sorry, just passing through!” Nilesy babbles. The shield Will Strife’s lent him is fulfilling its intended duty. “Don’t mind me!”

_ “Nilesy!” _ He bellows. His voice carries, floating aloft the smoke and fear to reach him.

Nilesy yelps, catching sight of him. He speeds across open ground. It’s a miracle how he’s not hit or scratched; Turpster’s already tied a couple of bandages to stop the bleeding from getting to him. A little bit of blood shouldn’t deter a meriff from doing their job, right?

Swearing, Turpster rushes in. The thickest part of the battle lies beyond the shield, towards the plains .The vast majority of the Blitzkrieg Blighters are concentrating their efforts to drain the shield. If the Bloody Bandits hadn’t volunteered to play defenders, Sanctuary Hole still wouldn’t be standing at this point in time.

He owes Parvis, Sparkles and their lot a big one. Many, many dead bandits rest in peace; a few groups have tried their luck with nabbing the power core. Saberial and BebopVox’s plan still holds, so long as the team still stands.

Turpster hauls Nilesy by the back of the collar, dragging him behind cover. He follows, throwing himself down to lie flat as a bullet shatters against the corner. Its shards skid off in every conceivable direction. It’s like being hit by gravel lobbed by a mob, stinging against his shield. 

“Sorry!” Nilesy blurts. Unfazed, Elsa wanders in a protective circle around him. Her slit eyes take in Turpster’s heaving frame; she regards him with a sharpness that he finds uncanny (which is coming from a cat, of all things).

“What the  _ hell _ are you doing here?”

“Shouldn’t that be ‘what in tarnation’ instead of ‘what the hell’,  _ sheriff?’” _ Nilesy quips. A hair toss returns his disheveled hair to its previous, pristine state.

Turpster almost envies the sleek, black luscious locks Nilesy’s blessed with. Almost, because he’d rather eat candied bullymong testicles instead of complimenting him.

“I think you’d better head back underground,  _ citizen,” _ Turpster advises.

“Can’t,” Nilesy promptly responds. “The lift’s too crowded. Too many wounded in line.”

Turpster almost doesn’t want to ask how the battle’s looking from Kogie and Leo’s point of view. He settles against the wall, reloading Law. Law’s chamber spins and locks back into place, with a satisfying click. He’s about to escort back Nilesy back when Martyn and the Toms heave the gate shut. He almost swears he sees someone slip out; Turpster blinks, shaking his head.

Martyn’s location on the map’s restricted to Sanctuary Hole’s closed gate, making sure that it’s not being bombarded. The Blitzkrieg Blighters continue with their assault on, in and around the shield and town. The Toms haven’t suffered any major casualties; a few drag legs and bear makeshift cloth bandages, but none are truly down for the count.

“Incoming unit!” One of the Toms broadcasts. Bandits decked in navy blue advance towards the gate.

Saberial leaps from the top of the town’s wall. She slides down it, holding her rifle up and firing in deliberate bursts. With her hair flying behind her and her face pinched in concentration, she looks fearsome, and every part the mercenary she’s reputed to be, while being every bit than the doting, loving girlfriend she is.

She lands amongst the bandits like a meteorite. Bandits surround her in a loose circle, guns rising to point at her. Saberial reloads, aiming at the lieutenant.

The Goliath’s helmet vibrates when they speak, a warning thrumming in the baritone emanating from the black slit cut in the metal. “This ain’t your fight, merc, so beat it.”

“It’s always been my fight,” Saberial says, regarding her foes with an appraising glance. She squints at the lieutenant, mentally going through the list that Daltos provided. The Goliath must be ‘Mess’, one of his less seen lieutenants managing an outer territory.

A smaller (but still towering over the other bandits) lieutenant joins their comrade. Saberial recognises the heavily clothed one as ’Vought’. “You piss off elsewhere, and we’ll ask Sjin to pay you triple to what this shithole’ll ever cough up.”

“This  _ shithole _ isn’t paying me anything to protect it.”

“You’re dying for free, merc!” Vought shakes their head. “What a shame.”

Guffawing, Mess aims the two assault rifles they’re carrying and fires both. Saberial ducks, rolling to the side. She pushes off against the ground, firing her own rifle at Mess’ bandits. Mess holds their fire to avoid damaging their own bandits.

Saberial takes advantage of this to mow down a quarter of the bandits, carving through them. She lands on Mess, shoving her gun under their helmet and pulling the trigger. Mess falls, their enormous body shaking the ground. Seeing their lieutenant fall, Mess’ unit start to retreat.

As Saberial clambers down, Vought tracks her through the scope of their rifle. Their finger’s about to depress the trigger when a cryo grenade slams into the back of their head. Shouting, Vought swings to confront their attacker. 

Zoeya pants, lowering her hand. Another cryo grenade lands in her palm, fingers curling around it. “You leave my girlfriend alone!”

The three Toms who’d failed to convince her raise their guns as Vought gestures, some of the bandits breaking away to join them. “You don’t look like you belong here. Scram, civvie.”

“I live in this town!” Zoeya defends. “So I gotta protect it too!”

“There’s nothing worth protecting! Last chance to run. We’ll give you a headstart of ten seconds before we shoot.” Vought holds up a hand. A couple of bandits by them grin in anticipation. “Ten, nine–”

Zoeya’s answer slaps them in the face. Grunting, Vought shrugs off the grenade’s impact. They don’t notice the cryo clinging to their helmet, starting its slow journey. Zoeya lobs another grenade at them. They duck. One bandit’s face is splattered with creamy white; they yelp at how cold it is, rubbing it off with the sleeve of their jacket.

The loose band of Toms fend off the mass of bandits pushing towards the gate. Not caught by the same trick twice, Vought slips behind a loose line of Nomads, letting their riot shields take the brunt of Zoeya’s grenades. Soon, it looks like a snowstorm’s been attacking the bandits.

She takes the pack of general grenades that a Tom slides towards her. A bandit screams when their frozen hand’s shatters from a shotgun blast. As realisation spreads amongst the bandits like free booze, panic begins to grip those sporting cryo damage.

Vought rips off their iced helmet, exposing a busy, black beard and cold touched features. They discard it, shedding their damaged jacket as well. Zoeya tries to flap her hands in panic; Vought’s pushing her closer to the power core, trying to trap her or make a bid for the precious core.

“Greif, get over here!” Vought demands. “Bring your flamethrowers, we got some thawing to do!”

“Roger,” acknowledges a muffled voice from Zoeya’s right. Zoeya turns as a wall of fire scorches the ground towards her. The fire evokes a flashback, to her burning lab, fear rooting her to the spot. 

Someone tackles her; Saberial hauls her to her feet, dragging her behind an upturned barricade by the gate. A few Toms let her pass before covering the gap.

“Why are you  _ here?” _ Saberial grabs her by the shoulders, almost shaking her. She’s not angry: she’s terrified. “You shouldn’t be here!” Blood coats Saberial’s face and hands; she’s getting it on Zoeya’s shoulders as well.

Zoeya shakes her head, pressing close against her, not repulsed by the blood one bit. “I couldn’t help it, I kept thinking about what’d have happened if you never came back, the first time you said ‘I love you’, and I couldn’t stand hiding in the caverns when you’re out here, doing your best to save everyone–” Trying to hold her composure snaps under the weight of her overwhelming love for Saberial. “So I came back up to find you, and that way, we’re not so far from each other if anything happens–”

“Babe, sshh, I’d never not come back to you,” Saberial shushes. She kisses the top of Zoeya’s head, breathing in the earthy, dusty smell that’s entirely Zoeya’s. Some days, she still can’t believe that Zoeya picked  _ her _ , of all people.

At this, Zoeya lets out a muffled sound close to a sob. Saberial wraps an arm around her, patting her back. “I’m not going back on the lift without you!”

If Panda were here, Saberial would have told them to take Zoeya with them, never mind her own status in a few hours. But Zoeya’s here, and there’s no way she’s retreating without putting up a fight. Half of Saberial admires her tenacity. The other half cringes, at what might happen to Zoeya if she’s exposed to the dangers of battle.

Still, Zoeya’s been on Pandora far longer than she has. There’s a toughness to her that other people tended to overlook due to her sweet, optimistic nature.

Saberial sighs. What would Minty do, in her situation? Minty’s not around to give her any advice for this sort of thing, and besides, it’d be awkward to ask her ex for help.

“Zoeya, listen to me.” Saberial moves back from Zoeya, looking her in the tear-filled eyes. “I’m not ordering you to retreat since they can’t open the gate right now.” Hiccuping, Zoeya manages a nod. “But if you’re here and want to fight by me, you need to do everything I tell you to.” Zoeya opens her mouth to argue. Saberial shushes her.  _ “Everything.” _

“I’ll do it.” Zoeya nods, more to herself than affirm her words.

“You need another weapon, aside from a grenade, but I can’t give you a gun since you don’t like guns.”

“Oh, I can shoot! It’s just been a long time since I picked up a weapon that’s not shooting tranqs, that’s all.” Zoeya twiddles her thumbs. Her anxious expression has Saberial wanting to wrap her in a blanket and stick her somewhere safe.

“Take this.” Saberial spawns a rocket launcher, handing it to her. It’s a long tube of a weapon popping with bright Maliwan colours, as thick as and almost twice the length of her forearms. It’s as heavy as an industrial pipe used for transporting slag run off.

“What’s this?”

“This is “Cryophobia.’” Saberial digs through her own stash of weapons. Zoeya takes it, marveling at the design before despawning it. Saberial also hands a shield and an SMG to Zoeya. “The shield is ‘the Avalanche’, and the gun is ‘Frostfire.’”

“What are you doing with so many cryo items?” Zoeya lets the shield power itself on, examining the SMG.

“I was going to give you lessons, but you didn’t seem to like being around them, so I put it all to one side.” Saberial tucks one of Zoeya’s stray curls behind her ear. She chuckles. “Boy, was I wrong.”

“You could have asked me!” Zoeya gives her an indignant look. “I don’t like hurting people, but I get that it’s sometimes necessary.”

“I don’t like hurting people too.” Saberial squeezes her in a bear hug that lifts her off the ground for a few seconds. “Now, listen, you stay with the Toms. I’ll draw their fire.” She leans in, whispering even as her voice wavers, “Don’t come after me, even if I fall.”

“I make no promises,” Zoeya whispers back to her. She moves to kiss her.

“I’ll take the raincheck on that kiss, if you don’t mind.” Saberial steps back, reloading her gun. She has to suppress adding a wink. Stepping back into combat takes less than a second; popping the brief bubble of comforting happiness takes more willpower than resisting a weekly ration sale.

Her opponent is dealing with a trio of Toms. Vought tosses aside an unconscious Tom who’d had the poor luck of getting in their way. Another Tom drags them back, yelling for a stretcher. Saberial marches towards them; her hands wrapped tight around her gun.

“Is that a ‘Veruc’ model?” Vought pushes up their goggles with a grimy, oversized gloved hand, whistling in admiration. “Oh, it is!”

“You want it?” Saberial gestures to it with her chin.

“I  _ do, _ how’d you guess?” Vought grins, crookedly.

“You’ll have to take it off my cold, dead body,” Saberial remarks. She opens fire on Vought, and the two begin their deadly fight.

\--

By the power core station, Turpster ducks. A plume of fire missing him leaves a long, charred streak on the ground. Greif turns their flamethrower as he rises, firing Law. Law’s shots pings off Greif’s armour. Greif wheezes a few asthmatic chuckles, gear clanking as they move towards him.

He can’t fight fire with  _ bullets. _

Nilesy screams a war cry as he leaves his cover, holding high Ravs’ booze manual. Both feet leave the ground as he leaps, wielding the book like a bat. It smacks Greif in side of the head with enough force to make Nilesy almost drop the oversized book. He lands, stumbling forward, cradling the book to his chest.

“Did it work?” He asks, beaming.

Behind him, Greif shakes off the attack, flames darting out of the homemade flamethrower they’re wielding. Turpster opens his mouth to shout a warning when a spitting white and blue blur lands on Greif’s head.

All of Elsa’s claws puncture through the protective, flameproof material surrounding Greif’s head. Yelling muffled, Greif slams down their flamethrower to try to snatch Elsa off their head.

“Leave her alone!” Nilesy’s book cracks against Greif’s shin. Yelling intensifying, Grief’s boot catches Nilesy on the face. Thrown back, Nilesy lands on the ground. His shield flashes when fire surrounds him. “Hot, hot, hot!” He despawns Ravs’ book to save it, hands patting down himself.

With Law failing him, Turpster grabs his last resort from his inventory. Made by bandits for bandits, he’d pilfered ‘Sledge’s Shotgun’ from the dead ones he’d murdered in Lynchwood. Armed with a blade on the grip, the double-barreled shotgun’s primitive design disguises its true power.

He swore never to use it. He could have returned it to Daltos back in the Crooked Caber (or anytime, really). Turpster forgets everything he’d taught himself about honourable combat to engage Greif in a one-man, suicidal charge.

Elsa’s claws keep shredding Greif’s mask, gouging the tanned skin underneath. Snarling, Greif grabs her tail, wrenching her off in one bold move. Still spitting, Elsa curls. Her nettle teeth sink into the skin between Grief’s glove and sleeve.

Howling, Greif flings her at the ground. Elsa’s body turns, letting her hit the ground with all four feet to flee to Nilesy’s side. She stands in front of him, ears flat against her head and growling, tail lashing back and forth like a clubbed whip.

Turpster twists the barrel of the gun around Grief’s neck, forming a chokehold. Greif elbows him, making Turpster’s overworked lungs regret his decision to attack. Greif pummels him, over and over, trying to dislodge him from their back. Turpster maintains his grip, eyes watering from the pain.

Flames doused, Nilesy collects Grief’s flamethower from where it’d fallen. He experiments with the output before turning it on Grief’s feet. The flames scorch the earth, traveling as high as Greif’s chest. Greif yells, dancing on the spot. Nilesy’s almost blown off his own feet by the recoil.

Turpster tucks his feet up, trying not to feel the fire through his shield. “Nilesy, why?” He despairs.

“I’m trying to help!” Nilesy explains. Elsa steers clear of the flames, pacing around the spectacle.

It’s a race to see whose shield perishes first. Turpster feels like a flag tied to a pole in the middle of a blaze. Greif is the wind, yanking him this way and that, trying to obliterate him.

Nilesy triggers the gas discharge on the flamethrower, knocking Grief and Turpster over. Grief lands on top of Turpster.

The curved, still sharp blade attached to Sledge’s Shotgun sinks in. Blood spurts from the line he’d made. Greif shudders, arms falling limp and body heavy. It’s far less blood than what Turpster expected. Neck gurgling, expression blank, Grief falls sideways onto Turpster’s lap, a dead weight. Extracting the shotgun’s blade takes less work than he expects. It comes loose in a spray of blood, taking with it a flap of loose neck skin.

Turpster dislodges it with a quick swing, wiping the stained blade on Greif’s shirt. He picks himself up, a tiny bit horrified that he’d succeeded in killing a lieutenant.

Yelling mixed with screaming has Turpster and Nilesy scrambling to see what’s happening by the gate. A miniature Goliath is rampaging amongst the barricades, throwing aside Toms and shelter. Martyn is on the ground, clutching his side. He keeps firing his own Law, aiming for the Goliath’s back and head.

Turpster bolts in, hauling Martyn and the nearest Tom up. Martyn’s leg sports a curling metal shard caught in it from a bouncing grenade. He hobbles on his good leg, lurching forwards. Two Toms take him from Turpster. 

The Goliath turns to punch the gate, rattling it as the dents widen, the metal starting to fold.

“Stop that Goliath!” Martyn rallies. “We can’t let the gate fall!”

\--

Saberial and Zoeya are busy dealing with Vought, Vought concentrating on Zoeya; they’re pushing her towards the wide ravine separating Sanctuary Hole and Three Horns.

Vought switches between Zoeya and Saberial, blocking any openings. With their bandits dead or distracted, Vought’s on their own. Bandits could be tricky at the worst of times; Saberial reloads, strafing to cover Zoeya.

Zoeya’s own shooting isn’t half-bad, but it’s not enough to take Vought’s shield down. Vought must have some sort of Tediore shield equipped; it recharges faster than it can be depleted. It’s just pushing Saberial to fight better, harder and faster rather than treat Zoeya as a handicap. Zoeya didn’t want to sit around waiting for her; she’d joined in after a few minutes.

Veruc empties, signaling in her HUD a need for ammo. Reloading it, Saberial swings it at a shape charging at her. It’s Mess, the other Goliath. Mess is  _ alive. _ She’d shot them cleanly in the head, leaving them to bleed on the ground. Mess slams both fists into the ground at her feet, roaring form the gaping hole in their helmet.

Bracing herself, Saberial fires Veruc at the misshapen remains of the helmet. The helmet drops, the welded metal remains folding at Mess’ feet. What’s left of Mess’ whole head is a spindly, bent skull, half of the jaw blown off. Blood leaks from mutated, rash struck skin. The gory mess left behind is vibrating all over with primitive rage directed at her.

Daltos had warned her about Mess in his notes; Mess’ exposure to eridium left them with a vicious temper when enraged, and a ferocious tenacity that gave them their moniker. Nothing stands in Mess’ way when Mess wants to destroy a target.

Saberial’s forced several metres back. She shoves back with Veruc’s body, the Goliath’s muscles straining until the heels of her boots are touching the edge of the ravine. The strain’s absolute hell on her taxed shoulders, arms and back; all those secret weight training sessions (more like exercise competitions) with Ravs are paying off. Ducking low, Saberial dodges the bone crushing swipe the Goliath tries.

A rough, backhanded sweep sends her to the ground. She gasps as pain rackets across and in her spine, rocks jabbing into her bones and skin. The Goliath attempts a stomps, leg muscles bulging.

She rolls, Veruc bouncing on its strap beside her. The frozen ground cracks, splitting. Veruc is in her hands in the next second, the barrel focused on Mess’ tiny, swaying head. Dead eyes burn, the half jaw locked in a permanent scream. It’s hard to tell if Mess is still alive; if they are, they’re operating on a basic instinct: kill. It’ll take more ammo than she currently has to permanently stop Mess in their tracks.

Saberial blows off Mess’ legs at the knees. Mess’ roar is like that of the giant skag from Lynchwood, primal and a cry for blood. Pain doesn’t exist in Mess’ world, even as a second burst of rounds downs them.

Even when deprived of legs, they’re trying to reach her by crawling. Their veined fingers plough into the cold dirt, forming zigzagging troughs. Pained sounds escape the lopsided hole that’s their ‘mouth’, situated between jaws that won’t close properly.

Still, Mess  _ lives. _ Saberial is filled with pity; it can’t be much of a way of life, to live for a kill and to die trying. They probably don’t deserve any mercy. She prides herself on being contrary, picking herself up to limp over. A crouch brings her level with Mess’ barrel chest.

Her gloved hands ensnare their loosened skull. Her thumbs find Mess’ cheeks, or what’s left of them. The skin is wet and bloody, pinpricks from burst capillaries leaving it patchy and bruise scarred. Mess squirms, thrashing like a thresher caught in a fishing net. Her grip tightens. Mess has no eyes; their eyes have since sunken in, eyelids fused. Someone’s taken a knife and scored lightly in places along their face so they could see.

Saberial closes her eyes, and concentrates on a single, inwards push of her palms.

The ground trembles, shuddering like it’s wincing. Saberial drops the skull in her hands, looking up to see an explosion of ice on the plains. A shocked figure about to impale her through the gut with a bayoneted rifle is encased in ice from head to toe. Zoeya reloads the rocket launcher, fumbling with it. It despawns, leaving her staggering.

Saberial runs at her. Zoeya greets her with a faint grin. She’s unharmed, steadied by Saberial’s hands. “Did you see that?” Her attempt to boast’s affected by her shaking voice.

“Babe, I’m so sorry, but no,” Saberial admits. She wipes her hands on an old t-shirt.

Zoeya blushes, her face almost lighting up the dark. “I actually missed, but the splash damage didn’t.”

A stare has Zoeya fidgeting. “I’m so proud of you, and holy shit,” Saberial blurts, vanishing the t-shirt. “You fired that thing without falling over!”

“If I can carry an adult skag on my back to be tagged, I can carry a rocket launcher!” Zoeya tries flexing; her muscles aren’t as defined as Saberial’s, but Saberial will always find an excuse to say that Zoeya has perfect muscles.

“As much as I’d love to spend my evening watching you flex, we need to go back to the core!” Saberial links her hand with Zoeya’s. A bit of dirt, sweat and blood never hurt anybody; in a way, it’s more intimate than kissing.

Zoeya keeps pace with her as the two sprint back to the power core. The miniature Goliath is upending barricades, using them as crude but effective thrown projectiles against their attackers.

Daltos only wrote one item down about Stirling: don’t call them ‘shorty’. Saberial curses the lack of advice, closing her HUD. Stirling’s pried off the bar keeping the gate closed. The Bloody Bandits atop the gate are thrown into a nervous frenzy, firing nonstop at them.

“Zoeya, go hide.” Zoeya goes without a single argument, heeding her words from before. “HEY, SHORTY!” Saberial bellows, her voice magnified by her ECHO device’s loudspeaker. “PICK ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE.” She thrusts her thumbs towards herself, challenging them.

Stirling turns, a miniature muscled force powered by spite and compact power. They tear off their own helmet, booming voice entering into nightmare territory. Their enraged charge leaves footprints behind as they home in on her. Saberial sprints off, sliding around the corner of the building. Stirling isn’t so lucky, moving too fast to slow down in time after her.

They crash into the power core’s holding rig, denting the exterior. Stirling bounces off, bulky arms windmilling so that they stay on their feet. One of the arms holding the core loosens, bending. Detecting an error, the rig ejects the power core. Stirling snatches it; the skin on their hands burn, but Stirling’s fist flexes, preparing to crush it. 

A pistol fires. Leaning against a Tom, Martyn fires Law. The revolver ratchets, barrel spinning like a roulette. It hits Stirling in the slanted jaw, creating a small bullet hole. Roaring in pain, Stirling flings the heated core to their right, leaping into the air with a fist raised to obliterate Martyn.

Saberial follows, catch the Goliath with a hefty punch of her own. Stirling thrashes in the air, landing on their back. They flip upright, fixating on her instead of Martyn.

Nilesy, Zoeya and Turpster tear after the rolling power core. The sloping ground takes it into the center of the conflict that’s advancing on the town. The sky is a mess of blooming explosions and vivid flashes of activity. 

The shield’s backup generators churn, grinding the last of the power into keeping the shield alive for as long as possible. Every hit drains the reserves, nudging it towards the critical point where it’ll finally fall.

“ELSA, FETCH!” Nilesy pants. Elsa’s ears twitch at the command. She bounds ahead of Nilesy, meowing. With her small size providing an advantage, Elsa reached the power core before anybody else. Her paws bat at the power core; the heat has her hissing, recoiling like a stalker meeting a thresher that refuses to be eaten. She hits it back towards Stirling. “NO!”

Zoeya and Turpster’s hands miss the spinning power core. Stirling flings Saberial into the wall, leaning down. Saberial grunts, her fingers just brushing the core as it passes her. They seize the power core in one meaty fist. It crunches, spraying sparks, twisting metal and wires. The pieces drop. Stirling throws their head back to laugh.

“Sorry to rain on your  _ little _ parade, but…” Turpster coughs. He wriggles his fingers; a second power core spawns into it–it slips between his fingers.

A Tom (dressed in chaps) power slides towards it like they’re kicking a ball. The power core flips in the air, smacking a bandit in the face. It bounces off their head. Eyes are drawn to it. Hands flail. Voices curse. The power core drops, becoming the eye of the storm.

\--

On the east coast, Elora cruises on her Stingray towards the clearing. The mud beneath her ancient ride is pressed down by the Stingray’s fans, squelching. Trell follows her on his own ride. The light mounted on the Stingray’s front bobs as the Stingray rides the flow of the land, following the beaten tracks of multiple vehicles. Not a lot of tracks go in reverse.

“Okay, when we get close, we pretend we got a delivery,” Elora whispers in the closed channel.

“I actually do have a delivery for him, so we don’t even have to pretend this time,” Trell easily responds. He’s not as worried; but maybe that’s because he’s sitting on his Stingray instead of being on foot.

No bandits are camping in the clearing. The rain tends to drive most inside. In this case, it’s knowing that the majority are fighting at Sanctuary Hole, trying to topple it and in the process, overthrow, find and kill their former Bandit Lord, Daltos.

Arsenal should have been running the show. That’s concern number one. Where is he, if he’s letting Arado run around loose, unaccounted for? All the possible answers aren’t pleasant to think of. The most lighthearted one Elora and Trell can come up with is that Arsenal is taking a sick day. The worst is that he’s dead.

Elora forwards a notice to the frigate. If nobody’s home, then maybe she and Trell can sneak in. The two’s arrival to the usual airlock’s met with momentary silence. Ten unsure minutes later (where Elora and Trell fret about failing their mission), the airlock’s doors slides open.

It’s Hawker answering. They look worse for wear, limping and bleeding from a bandage wrapped around their face. Their jacket’s stained, badly sewn patches keeping it barely together. One punch could knock them over.

They wince, albeit manage a weak, gap-toothed grin. “Hey, it’s our favourite couriers! What’re you doing here?” Their bravado’s an act, or so it feels.

“We got mail for Arsenal. It needs his signature,” Elora says. “Like always.”

“He can’t come to the door, but how about I take you in to see him?” Hawker proposes. A slight edge to their voice indicates that it’s a suggestion that Elora and Trell should accept.

“We can do that.” Elora and Trell follow Hawker in. This is the first time they’ve stepped inside the frigate (past the airlock). 

Hawker leads the two couriers deeper inside, taking a series of winding corridors until the three end up in front of a secure-looking door. 

The guards standing there are Goliaths. Hawker coughs. “Got a couple of couriers here to sign off on a delivery.” The Goliaths don’t budge, staring at Hawker. Their red eyes emit a faint glow. Hawker sighs. “Arado didn’t say that he couldn’t get packages, alright?” The two guards permit the three entry, stepping aside to let Hawker key in the code to the brig.

The brig stinks of old blood. Trell almost gags, holding his disgust in, along with his lunch. Hawker limps towards the back, past rows and rows of empty cells.

Towards the back, the cells are livelier. Hawker passes one containing Hurricane. Hurricane rests inside one on the bench, unconscious. The fingers of one hand are twisted and bent. Hurricane sleeps fitfully, occasionally twitching and mumbling feverishly. Hawker doesn’t pause to check on them.

In the opposite cell is a chained, unusually tall bandit sitting in the corner, morose and silent. Gashes streak their chest, arms and face. It takes her a second to realise that they’re not staring into space; they’re staring at the cell beside Hurricane.

Bucker mimics Hurricane in their current state, left on the floor to sleep off their wounds. Cant moans, trying to get Hawker’s attention. Hawker ignores them, limping past another figure who’s sitting in the corner. Siebel sighs, toying with a bit of string in their hands.

“Hang on, why’re you in here?” Hawker squints at them. “I thought you were off flying with the other kissassing blowhards!”

“I blew up my own Buzzard to protest the attack,” Siebel leisurely says. “Dornier had his eye on my baby, now he’s never gonna fly it.” They sheepishly grin, through their mask. “He threw me in here so I didn’t get in his way.”

“Oh.” With a thoughtful look, Hawker appears to revise their opinion of Siebel. They leave them be to take the couriers to the back of the brig.

The last cell on the left contains nobody. On the right is the person Elora and Trell came to find. Arsenal leans against the wall, head tipped so that his eyes aren’t visible. The constant gloom makes it hard to tell what his exact condition is.

Elora taps the bars, leaning in. “Arsenal? Delivery,” She whispers, scared that he’s not alive.

He doesn’t respond at first. Elora is about to try again when his hands twitch. He lifts his head; Elora’s never seen his tanned face so drained of colour before. Trell makes a strangled sound when Arsenal shifts, bringing his left leg out of the curtain of shadows.

“Your leg–” Trell’s horror is cut short by Arsenal speaking.

“I’m not expecting any packages,” Arsenal rasps. “You took a big risk in coming here.”

“We have an important message,” Elora tells him. “It’s worth the risk.”

“Yeah, and our jobs are on the line,” Trell adds. “Plus, you know, our pride as couriers.”

“Is it from Daltos?” Arsenal sways as he sits up. “He’s alive?” The hope in his voice is unmistakable. “Did he get my message?”

“He did,” Trell whispers. “He’s in Sanctuary Hole.”

“Why is he in Sanctuary Hole?” Arsenal’s alarmed. “He shouldn’t be there! Arado’s already–”

“The fight’s underway,” Elora reports. “It’s too late, he’s already involved.”

“I gotta bust out of here and help him.” Arsenal pushes up off the bench. He almost falls, unused to the sudden lack of weight on one side. At the last moment, he uses a hand to feel along the grimy wall for support.

“You ain’t in no condition to move,” Hawker points out. They’ve been awfully quiet, keeping an uneasy watch for any approaching bandits who might not like the couriers being escorted so far into the frigate. “But I can go and nick some stuff from Klemm’s doctor room that might help.” They unlock Arsenal’s cell door by entering in a code. The door creaks as it slides sideways.

“Do it,” Arsenal orders. Hawker nods, slipping out of the brig.

“Can we help?” Trell offers. “You might not make it very far with that, uh.” Not wanting to be offensive, he points to Arsenal’s left leg (or what’s left of it).

“Yeah.” Arsenal jabs a thumb against his heaving chest. Moving is taking its toll on him, beads of sweat pricking his forehead along his hairline. “You can help me get to Sanctuary Hole!”

“We’re not sure how to do that!” Trell protests, after a pause.

Arsenal’s hands rifle through the pockets of his jacket (which is missing a sleeve). He finds what he’s looking for, withdrawing it. “Then deliver me!” He slaps a postal stamp onto his chest. “That’s your policy, right?” He challenges.

“We can do that,” Trell admits, not even having to check his mental copy of the postal service policy (edition nine, version two point oh three).

“I mean, we did deliver that baby,” Elora muses out loud. “If we can literally deliver a baby, we can deliver anything, including a bandit.”

“I’ll also pay you half a million bucks, tip included,” Arsenal adds, giving the two a salacious wink.

“Congratulations, you’re now the most expensive cargo Pandora’s Postal Services have delivered,” Elora automatically says. “We’ll get you to Sanctuary Hole via express service, or your money back, guaranteed, and provided you include a signature upon delivery, and a copy of your receipt will be provided.”

“Fuck yeah, this ass don’t come cheap,” Arsenal jokes, heaving off the wall to hop to the door. “But before we leave, we gotta pick up some shit from my room and armoury first, I’m not leaping into this without some extra firepower.”

\--

On the other side of Sanctuary Hole, Daltos and Parvis rocket across the battlefield in a stolen technical. Daltos spins the wheel, dodging a barrel lit on fire. It explodes a second later, throwing debris and gravel up from the torn ground.

Parvis turns in the technical’s gunner’s seat, mowing down obstacles and foes. The body count ticks up, ratcheting into the fifties. He hit double digits maybe a few minutes ago. He doesn’t exactly know. The mounted turret vibrates in his hands, bucking the attached scope taped on, the steady click of the turret spewing spinning buzzsaws.

“Go left, towards my gang!” Parvis screams, watching someone get cleanly decapitated by one of his bouncing saws.

His bandanna as good as useless, sticking to his neck and shirt from all the sweat. His wet hair’s smoothed back by Daltos’ reckless driving. He shouldn’t have let Daltos drive; the knife still stuck in his back might be what’s causing the erratic turns and complete lack of braking.

Towards the edge of the plains, Daltos steers into a swell of blue. Bandits react by firing at him; Daltos leans back, letting the technical’s protective frame take the brunt of the blows. Either Daltos heard him and is ignoring him, or he never did. He continues towards the center of the unit (or units; Parvis lost count long ago of all the navy blue jackets he’s seen floating around, attached to the alive and the dead).

Parvis yelps, his shield going through a series of alarming flashes. He ducks, taking his hands off the turret just in case he loses a finger. His face slams into the rounded compartment which is the gunner seat’s interior chamber. Yelping as his shield takes that for him like a champion, he emerges to see why Daltos hit the brakes.

Nobody’s shooting, a rare occurrence during a bandit war. Daltos is gone from the driver’s seat, limping towards two lieutenants. Parvis hoists himself higher, preparing to shoot if either show any signs of wanting to harm Daltos.

To his surprise, the two lieutenants descend on Daltos with evident relief and joy. The Bruiser fusses over him, reaching for the embedded knife blade with giant, knuckle duster clad hands. Daltos steps back, snapping at them. The Bruiser isn’t fazed by his prickliness. Their partner, the Nomad with a bunch of shock equipment equipped points at Parvis, mumbling under their flat hat.

Daltos gestures. From the way his mouth moves and his hands, he’s explaining things. Parvis appreciates the lack of shooting happening. The two lieutenants approach Parvis; Parvis nearly ducks back down into the turret seat to hide.

“It’s fine, they’re with me. Parvis, this is Klemm and Fieseler,” Daltos explains. He’s helped into the driver’s seat by Klemm. “The two didn’t want in on this stupid war, so they’re just going to bugger off back home the long way.”

“Hi,” Parvis says, not wanting to be rude to the only two bandits so far who’re willing to switch sides.

“Listen, Daltos, when you finally get back–” Klemm’s deep voice penetrates the air.

“I’ll be back,” Daltos cuts them off. “We’ll talk about how this happened then.”

“Nah, it ain’t that, it’s about Arado’s–” Klemm begins. 

Fieseler tugs on their arm, mumbling growing faster and furiouser. It’s like listening to the low hum of generators powering on after a flash flood in the dam. With how damaged Parvis’ hearing is, he can’t make out what they’re saying. His lip reading skills also aren’t as good as Kogie’s.

“What’s Fieseler saying?” Parvis whispers to Daltos. Daltos stares at Fieseler. Fieseler falls silent. They retreat under their hat.

_ “Klemm.” _ The single word from Daltos has Klemm flinching.

“Fieseler says ‘sorry’, and that’s all,” Klemm says at last.

“For what?” Daltos’ stare intensifies.

Klemm scratches their bald head. Fieseler says nothing. “You’ll see,” Klemm eventually says. The cryptic wording has Daltos frowning but he says nothing else.

“Get out of here, you two, and take your units with you.” Daltos turns on the technical without looking at the two. Klemm looks like they want to add something else; Fieseler’s hand on their arm stops them.

Watching the two retreat, Parvis turns back to Daltos. He hadn’t seemed that happy about running into the two; he looks preoccupied. Parvis returns to his job of defending the technical. 

Bloody Bandits are falling back to the shield’s perimeter. Parvis and Daltos follow. Along one of Sanctuary Hole’s walls, they rejoin Parvis’ bandits. Daltos exits the technical, as with Parvis. The technical’s front spouts smoke so dark that it could be used as black paint. Parvis gives it a good shove; it slides backwards, back towards the worst of the fighting to explode (and maybe take a few bandits with it).

“Hey, hold up!” Parvis jogs behind Daltos. He wobbles when coming to a stop, after spending so long seated and hanging on for dear life.

Daltos’ limp stops him from going too far. The blade in his back shines as it catches the light. “What?”

“Lemme tend to my dudes!” Fighting his nausea, Parvis nods at the white tent set up. A spray painted sign of an Anshin syringe dangles from the top of the tent. Through the half-open flap, bandits lie groaning, silent or thrashing on the stretches within.

Daltos leans against the wall. A couple of passing bandits throw hateful looks at him. With his eyes closed, he misses it. “Go play medic, but hurry up, I’m not getting any younger.”

Parvis would have loved to respond with ‘but you’re still pretty hot’ but his brain’s filter learned from its mistakes and snatches the sentence away before it can leave his mouth.

Gesturing rudely to the two bandits responsible for the dirty looks, Parvis ducks into the tent. He crouches by a stretcher. The once white fabric is stained a deep red, splashes of blood turning it other shades. Temporary medics attend to them; each tote a gun on their back in case of an attack.

“Parvis!” The Bloody Bandits who’re still awake greet Parvis.

“Hey man, sing me that song, I could use a little pick me up,” One bandit whispers, coughing. 

A blood bubble on the corner of their mouth pops. The putrid hole in their stomach leaks viscera and fluids, making the air curdle from the smell. Parvis isn’t as bothered by the smell, focusing on his bandits’ hopeful faces. They’re all counting on him to lift the mood, as always. He can’t disappoint them.

“You are my sunray, my only sunray…” Parvis whispers to the dying bandit. The dying bandit chuckles in appreciation. Their chest rises, then falls, then rises before stopping. Parvis blinks through his tears, rising. He leaves the tent before he can start crying in front of all his cheered bandits, bidding the rest good luck and promising to kick ass in turn.

“I know I said I was gonna be a medic, but I’m not doing a good job, am I?” Parvis mumbles. He doesn’t expect a response from Daltos.

“I think you’re doing fine,” Daltos says, and leaves it at that. Baffled, Parvis is left fumbling for a comeback.

Movement above the two catches their attention. Clearer than ever, the night sky’s exposed, the telltale ripple absent. It hits the two like a shockwave: the shield’s gone. Daltos and Parvis break into a run, nearing the gate.

The chaos at the gate is caused by a single, rogue power core on the loose; Curtiss scoops up the power core, taping a stick of lit dynamite to it. Curtiss laughs as it’s set loose; Daltos lifts Emperor and fires; Curtiss’ brains are greyer than all the brains Parvis’ ever seen (including the ones he’d found on the ECHOnet for a dare).

With the dynamite attached to it, the core rolls to a stop. Elsa bats at it in Nilesy’s direction, thinking it’s a game of sorts.

Parvis dives at it. The core’s as big as a plastic water bottle, and weighs as much. The blue lights within it stays steady despite its new, dangerous payload. Cradling it to his chest, Parvis streaks towards the wooden bridge. It’s not a bomb he’s carrying, he’s carrying a ball! Or a newborn baby who’s so cute that he could almost eat them! The timer in his arms ticks down from thirty seconds.

Daltos gives chase too. If Parvis didn’t know he’d been stabbed, he’d mistake Daltos as being in tip-top condition. Everyone watches them, shouting and screaming for the two to come back. Bandits stop warring to join in, albeit ruder.

“Parvis, give me the core!” Daltos’ yelling has Parvis wanting to do the opposite.

“No!” Parvis shouts back.

The two sprint across the bridge connecting Sanctuary Hole to Three Horns. Daltos puts on a burst of speed, reaching Parvis’ heels. Squealing, Parvis trips. Daltos tackles Parvis. Parvis summons all his strength, envisioning Ravs doing the throwing in his place. He imagines his arm muscles tearing, hurling the doomed power core into the air. It’s a blue dot against the starry skies, becoming a star of its own for a millisecond, bright and wondrous.

It explodes. For a few seconds, Daltos and Parvis remain prone on the bridge. Daltos’ elbow digs into the back of his spine, as his world lilts to the left. He’s fine, so it can’t be his hearing; he’s not the one tilting, the bridge is. A rumbling like the crash of water in the dam’s catchment shakes the bridge like it’s made of paper matchsticks and the flimsiest wood in the universe.

A tsunami of loose snow crashes into the aged, wooden supports. The bridge collapses under the forceful assault. Parvis screams. Arms find him, pulling him close; Daltos hugs him, one hand twisting into Parvis’ hair. The other drags Parvis close to him so that they’re pressing against each other, as intimate as a pair of lovers curled up in bed during a thunderstorm.

The next ten seconds (or maybe thirty) pass in a confusing whirlwind of movement, sound and blurs. From Parvis’ perspective, past Daltos’ shoulders, rock, snow and darkness converge, wrapping the two in a disorientating cocoon of activity and sensations.

Parvis opens his eyes when it’s all stopped. Through the dull haze of ‘what the fuck, I’m still alive’, Parvis comes to.

First things first, Daltos is still wrapped around him. Parvis blinks. As his eyes adjust to the prickling darkness, he can spot an assortment of rocks penning the two of them in. They’re in an alcove at the bottom of the ravine. It’s what stopped the two from being buried alive by the avalanche.

Parvis tries to move. He’s met with an agony he’s rarely experienced in life (contrary to the rumours Lalnable perpetuated about him being so accident prone). He looks down, and immediately regrets it. Bone juts out of one of his legs through his pants. He squeaks, about to start screaming at the sight of his broken leg–gloved hands grasp him by the sides of his face.

“Look at me,” Daltos orders, in a harsh voice roughened by pain. 

Wanting to see anything else but his leg, Parvis stares into his eyes, his fear driven off by shock. Daltos might as well have asked him to strip. Clouds from their breathing fills the tiny space, the cold giving it shape. Slowly, but surely, Parvis calms. He’s still alive.

“We can’t stay here,” Parvis eventually mumbles. His shield’s gone; it must have gotten thrown somewhere by all the rolling and tumbling. Daltos’ eyes slide shut. Parvis shakes him. “Don’t fall asleep!”

“I’m trying not to,” Daltos mutters. Parvis pinches him. This earns a grunt and a half hearted shove. If it’ll keep him alive, then he’ll do it.

Trying not to hyperventilate, Parvis attends to his broken leg. There’s not much he can do, even with a fully stocked medkit on hand. With his ECHO device providing light, Parvis can at least, stop his leg from getting any worse.

Parvis tends to Daltos’ own wounds too. He rechecks the tourniquet he’d tied earlier, around the knife. It’s still holding; the problem is that he’s not sure where else Daltos is bleeding from. It’s not until he rolls Daltos over onto his side that he sees that the back of his head is too slick.

He does his best, under the circumstances.

“I hope they have a spare power core,” Daltos mumbles, sounding closer to sleep than Parvis would like.

Parvis doesn’t want to tell him that Sanctuary Hole’s well and truly fucked. Dizziness causes him to lie down, resting his head against Daltos’ shoulder. All the cold from the snow is sinking into the space. Shivering, Parvis shuffles closer into Daltos. Daltos doesn’t move. He smells of blood, stale smoke and somebody else; it takes a moment for Parvis to place it.

“You smell like Zylus,” Parvis whispers.

A pause. Daltos coughs, his hand twitching against Parvis’ side. “And you smell like hormones and skag piss,” He insults.

“I’m twenty-nine, not a kid!” Parvis hotly responds, offended that Daltos thinks as much. “And don’t tell anybody my age, that’s supposed to keep my fans guessing!”

“You can’t be twenty-nine,” Daltos denies. He doesn’t sound as close to sleep as he did ten seconds ago.

“I have a baby face!”

“Really? You look like you tried to grow a beard, failed, then superglued pubes to your face, badly.”

“You look like a chain smoker who’s seen too much, knocked up a whole bunch of people and is now taking care of fifteen kids ‘cause he didn’t have safe sex, and is always running on two hours of sleep,” Parvis says in one breath.

“That’s the saddest insult I’ve ever heard.” Daltos coughs. It has less of the worrying impact the other one did. “And I don’t chain smoke, I only go through one pack a day.”

“Wait, so you really are a dad?”

“No!”

“Then why did you only say something about the smoking?”

“Shit, I don’t know!”

“But you got that look about you!”

“Parvis, I have never, in my entire life, knocked up anybody.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Condoms, and sex doesn't have to be all about the babymaking you know. There’s lots of other ways to have sex.”

“Pretty please pretend that I didn’t just open my mouth so that I can forget you just said that.”

“Are you sure you’re twenty-nine?”

“What’s nineteen plus ten?”

“Twenty-nine.”

“So, twenty-nine.”

“You can’t be the same age as me.”

“Believe it, or don’t.” Parvis settles against Daltos’ shoulder, leeching precious body heat.

The silence lasts for half a minute before Daltos inquires all too casually, “How do you know what Zylus smells like?”

“He sent me his jacket to fix after he nearly ripped the sides doing some heavy lifting.”

Daltos doesn’t bother to mention that Zylus had been lifting him. “Oh, that’d explain why that jacket looks uglier lately.”

“Fuck you, I used my best thread! And also, I don’t go around smelling people’s clothes! It’s just that he smells like baby powder for a dude who lives in the middle of the desert!”

“Sorry, gonna have to say ‘no’ to that offer, I’m already being fucked,” Daltos chuckles at Parvis’ sounds of repulsed retching. “Yeah, it’s weird, he smells like baby powder no matter what.” 

“Yeah, it is!” Parvis wholeheartedly agrees. “You’d think he’d smell like a bucket of sand or something.”

After sharing a laugh with him, Daltos drops the suggestive and joking tone for a serious one. “Hey, so.”

“What?” Parvis ceases giggling in the dark. At least he’s not alone this time.

“Why’d you save me?”

“You defended me against Turpster.”

“It wasn’t fair of him to discriminate. If that’s the right word?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, he was being a dick to us bandits. Why’d you want to help us?”

“If Zylus came back and his friends are all dead thanks to the shit I pulled back there, he’d never forgive me.”

“That explains a lot.”

“It explains jack shit, in my opinion.” Daltos coughs, wetly. It’s like he’s trying to pull his lungs out through his mouth. “Shit.”

“Hey, just lie still. Save your energy.” Parvis could insert a joke about the dangers of smoking. As Daltos keeps coughing, he’s less tempted to.

“I think I forgot to take my heart medication, so that’s why I’m not doing so good.”

“I can get them for you?”

“Don’t bother. I’ll live, just let me rest in peace until help arrives.”

“Wait, wait, you don’t mean that, right?”

“We’ll see.”

There’s not a lot to stare at in the alcove. Parvis squeaks when the light of his ECHO device shuts off to save energy. Daltos makes a soft, amused sound.

If he didn’t have a knife stuck in his back or is busy suffering from horrible blood loss, Parvis would have stuck his cold hands on his bare skin. He wishes he had better gloves on, and stolen a clean jacket from one of his lieutenants. Hopefully his hands don’t turn completely blue and fall off, becoming skag chow. 

Are there skags in here? Parvis casts a glance around the space, watching the shadows for a telltale hump shifting. The nice xenobiologist lady had said in one of her rambles that skags could live virtually anywhere.

Daltos’ head lolls to the side, away from him. His breathing’s less ragged, easing into a gentler, rhythmic state. Is that normal? Parvis eases onto his elbows, clicking his device’s light back on. Determining if Daltos is going to live is going to take skills that he doesn't have. What he can do is keep him alive until help arrives.

“Hey, stay alive!” Parvis urges. “I don’t know CPR!”

“Shut up, I’m just closing my eyes for a second,” Daltos mumbles. Where Parvis’ arm is touching him, he can feel him relax, wandering further and further away from consciousness by the second.

“Don’t do that!” Parvis dredges an Anshin syringe out of the kit that’s lying on the ground beside him. The sight of the still capped needle has his insides spinning with nauseous, nail-biting fear. He sets it down, his cold hands moving to Daltos’ jacket. 

All the fabric and layers he’s wearing are in the way. Teeth chattering, Parvis tugs down the zipper. Daltos twitches, moving, trying to shove him away. Parvis makes the best reassuring sound he can; it sounds like he’s failing to blow a party kazoo, air escaping between the crooked gap in his front teeth.

The zipper falls. The shirt underneath intact, save for the slit on one side where the knife’s tip is protruding and cut into it. Parvis ignores it, slipping Daltos’ closest arm out of a sleeve. Daltos shakes his head, fighting him by shifting. That arm’s covered in new bruises. Parvis doesn’t really want to stick a needle into any one of those spots. He tugs up the hem of Daltos’ shirt to find a better place to stick the needle.

“WEE FUCKING GILLICKERS–” Parvis claps a hand to his own mouth since Daltos can’t do that.

It’s impossible to tell where a bruise begins and ends, patterned across Daltos’ chest. If a bruise could have bruises and those bruises had bruises, Parvis is in deep shit; Lalnable hasn’t yet covered what to do if he’s faced with this level of damage.

Parvis leaves the shirt be, returning to the arm. He tugs the sleeve up, trying not to burn the sight into his retinas. Whimpering, he slides the needle home into Daltos’ upper arm. Daltos doesn’t react.

Getting rid of the needle takes a second. Parvis slips it into his inventory’s ‘trash’ tab. He zips the kit shut, returning it to his inventory. Parvis grabs Daltos’ arm, sliding it back into the jacket sleeve. Touching the bruises elicits a mild shake of the head and a frown.

“Sorry,” He mumbles, about to tug down Daltos‘ thin shirt when a flicker of movement on his radar has him stopping. Parvis whips out his gun. He settles onto his side to avoid agitating his broken leg, breathing hard.

Arado’s sadistic grin almost lights up the night.

\--

High above Sanctuary Hole, two Buzzard pilots traveling with their unit are about to drop the next round of bombs on the town. Focke and Wulf ECHO their unit members, initiating a roll call. All thirty bandits chime in. 

A second unit joins the volt, trailing behind theirs. In the dark, nobody spots the red clad bandits flying the extra Buzzards. Focke signals a crude greeting, dismissing the reinforcements; flying through the Three Horns mountain range weeded out a few useless pilots.

Laughing, Focke repeats the roll call. The last member of their unit is silent for five, prolonged seconds. Frowning, Focke swings their Buzzard around. Wulf copies them. They two spot the burning wreck of a Buzzard falling towards Three Horns, a black dot falling out of it. The second unit spreads across the skies. All of them swing around to open fire.

Swearing, Focke drifts higher, unlatching the machine gun, flicking switches to kick the Buzzard into higher gear. On their left, Wulf does the same. Picking up on the sudden threat, the rest of the unit follows suit, breaking formation and fighting shouts of ‘stop, friendly fire!’ filling Focke and Wulf’s feeds.

Why are their own Buzzards attacking them?

Despite his nervousness, Sparkles grins. He pushes the joystick of his Buzzard forward. The Buzzard obeys, boosters on either side a gentle roaring in his ears. The metal chassis holds, defying the shuddering running up and down it. The machine gun in front spews rounds, following the nearest target.

Below him, flashes of rockets make his vision flare. The night vision goggles he’d picked up from Sips’ shop (which didn’t just sell weapons) make this a piece of cake. The Blitzkrieg Blighters are reacting faster to the backstabbing and ambush than Sparkles hoped; he’d wanted extra time to take out a couple more Buzzards. Even taking one Buzzard down lessened the chances of Sanctuary Hole being bombed.

Fighting all those sabotaging Rats delayed his flight time; he hopes that he’s not too late in helping Parvis and the others. Half the Buzzards are down from the attempts; the other half are airborne, scattered across the skies. The Bloody Bandits hadn’t painted the Buzzards to suit their own color scheme yet. The other Buzzards are taking potshots at suspected traitors.

It suits Sparkles’ mission just fine. The hard part’s going to be staying alive to land the fucking Buzzard. He doesn’t trust Buzzards to stay in the air for so long, never understanding why certain bandits adored being in the sky, wrapped in a temperamental hunk of junk with boosters welded to both sides. The appeal’s rubbing off on him.

He nails an enemy Buzzard in the side, turning it into useless, holey scrap before its pilot can eject. With no sympathy at all, Sparkles moves on.

Two Buzzards close in on him, sweeping along his flank. Sparkles brakes, rotating to face them. The three Buzzards float in a triangle. Sparkles recognises Focke and Wulf from the notes Saberial shared with him.

“You bloody  _ bastard,” _ Focke hisses through clenched teeth.

“Say ‘hi’ to the ground when you meet it,” Wulf snarls.

“Sorry, just doing my job!” Sparkles has time to cheerfully quip, cranking his Buzzard to the side.

Two lines of gunfire rip through the space where his Buzzard had been two seconds ago. Focke and Wulf drop, following Sparkles. Sparkles continues dropping like a stone; he releases the joystick to let his Buzzard spin like a toy top losing speed.

Focke and Wulf take this as a cue to shoot. Sparkles fiddles with the smoke grenade in his pocket, snapping the pin off. It’s stuffed into a side compartment, adding to the illusion that he’s out of control. Gunfire narrowly misses him when he twitches the joystick.

The swearing from Focke and Wulf could curdle milk. Sparkles eases his Buzzard back into control, trying to give off the impression that it’s limping, acting as a tempting target for two trigger-happy lieutenants.

Focke takes the bait. Wulf reacts a few seconds too late, screaming for them to wait; Sparkles nearly snaps his joystick in half, whirling the Buzzard to face Focke. He thumbs the trigger, machine gun fire slamming home; Focke recoils, gasping as they’re hit. Where, Sparkles doesn’t see. He adds a second round of fire to finish the job.

Wulf attacks. Sparkles’ Buzzard emits the cough of death, engines choking as it finds itself full of giant holes. Proper, black, lung tarring smoke pours out of it behind Sparkles’ head. Focke’s Buzzard is already falling towards the mountains.

Sparkles follows as Wulf’s Buzzard keeps shooting. He puts himself between the two. Wulf stops firing; it’s dirty to use Focke as a shield, but Sparkles’ reputation isn’t on the line, Parvis’ is.

Focke’s Buzzard hits the snow at an angle, pieces of it sticking out of the snow. Sparkles hits a snow bank, throwing him up in his seat, the seat’s straps cutting into Sparkles’s shoulders. He snaps off the straps, clambering out as his entire body groans at the effort of moving so soon after a crash landing.

He’s at Focke’s Buzzard by the time Wulf safely lands, gun in hand. Sparkles points his gun at Focke’s temple. Faced smeared with soot, Focke stares across the clearing at Wulf, holding their gaze. Wulf aims at Sparkles’ head, staring at both.

“Let Focke go and we’ll retreat with our unit,” Wulf bargains. Without the sound of the Buzzards in the way, Wulf’s voice is surprisingly soft, with a hint of a Pandoran accent. Focke’s is harder, curving around certain letters. “We’re only in this fight ‘cause Arado promised we’d get to drop bombs on stuff and people.”

“That’s pretty horrible of you,” Sparkles observes. Focke’s not bothering to struggle, licking their lips. Blood trickles down their forehead.

“We’re  _ bandits.” _ Wulf lifts their gun higher, by a fraction. “It’s what we’re supposed to do, not like you sorry excuses at that mouldy, thresher infested dam.”

“At least we’re not killing innocent people,” Sparkles observes, ignoring the jab about the dam.

“You think all those people in that town are innocent?” Wulf laughs, a soft punch of a sound. “That sheriff of yours, you know what he did? He lynched my baby cousin. Didn’t even give my cuz one last call like he was supposed to.”

“Sorry about your cousin.”

“She–they was a good kid. Didn’t do anything as bad as us to get sent to this space rock.” Wulf nods, briefly pausing as they’re choked up by emotion. “Wanted to fly real bad. We were gonna wait until she got back from scouting to show her how to fly.” Wulf proudly indicates their Buzzard, and the name painted along its side. “Named my ride after her.”

“And Daltos buried them outside of that town where the view was nicest.” Focke nods, copying Wulf. “That was nice of him.”

“Lost a bunch of buds in the attack on the dam some months back.” Sparkles’ mouth twitches. “Really good buds, who just wanted to do stunts, try to summon skagzilla and always screamed during horror movies while eating all the popcorn.”

“Looks like we got a real wordsmith,” Wulf sarcastically says.

“And I still got a gun pointing at your bud here.”

“Partner, actually,” Focke snaps. “We’re  _ married _ . Why can’t people see that?”

“Really?” Sparkles stares, blinking at the force of Focke’s snapping. “Thought you two were just really close bros.”

“We can be bros  _ and _ more than bros,” Wulf says, slightly miffed. They shimmy the fabric around one glove up just a bit, enough to show a hint of metal encircling one of their fingers. “Arsenal oversaw the wedding couple of months back.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to make an assumption. That was bad of me.” Sparkles can feel the tension in the air ease after his sincere apology.

“Hey, where’s Parvis?” Wulf shifts, fixing their glove. They return to pointing the gun at Sparkles.

“Dunno. I’d check, but I’m a little busy at the moment.” Sparkles also wonders where and how Parvis is doing. From here, the battle’s ongoing; explosions have largely stopped above Sanctuary Hole. Outside of Sanctuary Hole, tiny figures blast each other into smithereens, chunks and pieces.

“Heard it was really you coordinating the dam defence.” Focke sits, cross-legged.

“Why aren’t you the leader?”

The compliment throws Sparkles for a loop. He laughs. Wulf and Focke exchange a raise of eyebrows. “I ain’t got shit on Parvis!”

“You sure? You got a better head for this stuff than he does.”

“I ain’t got the right people skills.” Sparkles chuckles. “People tend to notice I’m a  _ little  _ manipulative if they spend too much time around me.”

“We know a guy who’s like that.” Wulf and Focke nod. “Real prick. I hope Parvis offs them.”

“So, what happened during the schism?” Sparkles inquires.

“What’s that?” Wulf blinks. “It sounds tasty.”

“It’s a fancy-ass term for mutiny. Didn’t you ever listen to Siebel’s lessons?” Focke snorts, but affectionately adds, “Idiot.” They start to detail how Arado began getting roped into Sjin’s schemes, with Arsenal none the wiser. Sparkles and Wulf put down their guns in a mutual truce.

\--

The night wears on. In the mountains, the duel between snipers continue. Bodies lie frozen on the trail. Lomadia huddles in a cave, reloading her sniper rifle with deliberate care. Frost clings to her weapon’s metal parts, the wind slinging snow across her vision and into her face. Her shield drains, a hair at a time. The battery’s dropped to half of what it was to when she’d started sniping.

Teep rests beside her in a crouch. They’re barely visible with their white jacket, their goggles’ lens shifting to match the background.

Eyes done resting, Lomadia nods to Teep. Teep nods, moving. Teep moves first, always, becoming a part of the mountain again. Lomadia’s lost sight of her rakk; the winds might be too powerful for it to follow her. It might have also seen the snipers, staying out of range. She’ll have to finish this fight without her loyal companion.

The light from Elpis is like a shining blanket falling on top of the mountains. All the air traffic to and from Sanctuary Hole’s ended, save for a few parked Buzzards at the sniper’s nest below. Teep updates her when they stay on their stomach, peering over the ridge.

Teep flashes ‘three’ at her. They duck, flattening themself against the snow and ice. A shot punches through the snow where Teep’s head had been.

“They’re good, whoever they are,” Lomadia mumbles. Teep nods. They carefully remain still for a few seconds. After a tense lull, Teep gestures for her to move behind them.

Lomadia’s thighs, back, shoulders and almost all her muscles are tired and sore from holding such prone and still positions for hours. She pushes past the aches, promising herself that she’ll splurge on a hot bath after this.

Teep falls still at another ridge. There’s nowhere else to go, save for a precarious downwards slide towards the other sniper nest. Teep extends a finger.

On her map, three red markers pop into view. Two of those markers are positioned behind the Buzzards. The last is at the mouth of the cave. A name appears above that one. It must be the lieutenant.

Rather than indicate for her to get into position, Teep signs, “Bomb.”

Lomadia stares at them, not knowing what they mean until she crawls to the ridge, seeing through her sniper rifle. She returns to Teep, nodding.

It’s two versus three. The wind stops battering the mountain, easing into an icy breeze. Teep leaves her side, slipping down the slope, hidden by their camouflage. Lomadia keeps watch, awaiting the perfect opportunity.

Ten minutes later, Teep’s moved around the cave, reaching the Buzzards. Teep removes one of the sentries, dragging them back to toss them off the cliff. Their yelp of surprise, plus a gasp of “Fairey!” goes unnoticed by the remaining two bandits.

Lomadia settles, her finger on the trigger, following the lieutenant’s movements. Teep dispatches the last bandit with a knife slash to the throat. She fires. Fairey topples, writhing in pain; they tear off their helmet, shoving their sniper rifle onto their back, eyes searching for her.

They spot Teep. The two draw at the same time, firing pistols. Fairey grimaces, shield fizzling. Teep shoots it off Fairey’s hip. It lands in the snow, out of Fairey’s reach.

Teep ducks behind a Buzzard for cover. Playing it smart, Fairey withdraws into the cave, limping; Lomadia can see the lumpy outline of the supposed bomb protruding underneath their winter coat.

Watching the cave, Lomadia rejoins Teep. The two stare at the entrance, waiting. Fairey’s withdrawn to the back of the cave to hide. Lomadia’s boot crunches on the snow. A pistol shot slams into her ankle. She trips, Teep yanking her by the arm to haul her back as a second shot throws up snow. 

Teep presses an item into her hand. They pat her on the head, falling into a crouch. She peers at the item they’d handed her, loading it into her sniper rifle. She holds it close to her, falling back into the old pattern of waiting.

Teep’s gone. All that’s left of them is their boot prints; expletives echo out of the cave. Gunshots reverberate through the chilled air, plus sounds of a scuffle. Lomadia steps into view, aiming her rifle up. Teep’s using their good arm to pin Fairey, Fairey putting up an enormous fight against being restrained, thrashing and snapping.

She fires. Her shot hits Fairey in the side, the needle bypassing all the insulating layers in the way. It must have pricked Fairey; Fairey’s squeezing their eyes shut before they can see what it is.

“You  _ shot _ me,” They breathe through their teeth.

Teep drops them, kicking their pistol away. They detach Fairey’s sniper rifle and digistruct modules, sliding both across the cave’s floor to join the pistol. Fairey flops onto their side, one cheek touching the cave floor. Teep pulls out a knife, slicing the tape holding the bomb onto Fairey off, getting to work on defusing it in the corner.

Lomadia keeps guard using the pistol Teep lent her.

They lift their head, squinting at the two. “Hey, why ain’t I dead?”

“I shot you with a tranquilizer,” Lomadia answers. “It should be kicking in soon.”

“Why a tranquilizer?” Fairey scowls at her.

“I ran out of bullets,” Lomadia admits. She helps herself to Fairey’s stash.

“Should have shot me so I could have joined my lot,” Fairey mumbles, head drooping. A few minutes later, they’re fast asleep, mouth falling open. Lomadia binds them with duct tape. 

Teep despawns the defused bomb. They take one step out of the cave with Lomadia, then stumble; Lomadia turns to help them. Teep waves her off, falling back to hit the snow with a soft thump.

Lomadia joins them, her body forming a neat outline in the snow. If she lets herself forget about the battle, it’s almost peaceful. Teep remains motionless, likely trying to recover some energy. How they moved so quickly and silently to the back of the cave is a mystery to solve later.

She rises, wanting to work off how restless she is. The avalanche from earlier’s knocked a view to the lower parts of the mountains.

Movement in the distant canyons dividing Sanctuary Hole and Three Horns draws her gaze below. Even as her arms journey into an uncomfortable cramp, Lomadia sets her sniper rifle on top of a suitable rock, peering down the scope.

\--

When the second power core explodes, everyone by the gate stares, entranced by the sight. As the cloud dissipates, a mood grips the bandits. Almost all the Bloody Bandits watching groan; a few drop their guns, looking blankly at the sky. The rest grit their teeth, bracing themselves for the coming attack.

The Blitzkrieg Blighters holler, kicking up a ruckus worthy of an arena crowd. So close to their goal, the Blitzkrieg Blighters’ vigor doubles. Stirling rallies the bandits towards the gate, a bloody fist punching the air.

Saberial, Martyn, Turpster, Nilesy, Zoeya and the Toms glance back at the bridge that’d collapsed, taking Parvis and Daltos with it.

Losing Parvis dealt the heaviest blow yet to the Bloody Bandits, the loss of morale spreading. In contrast, the Blitzkrieg Blighters losing Daltos throws them into a delighted frenzy. The surviving defenders retreat to the gate, their window for escape cut off by the pressing tide of blood thirsty bandits led by Stirling. 

Saberial finds Zoeya’s hand, squeezing it. Back to back with her larger than life girlfriend, Saberial is at peace. “Love you,” She whispers, adding an apologetic grin.

“Love you too,” Zoeya whispers back. Her hand’s clammy with sweat, and is still just as soft as Saberial remembers it. The two gaze at each other, comforted that if they died right now, the last thing that they’ll see will be each other.

Over to the two’s right are Martyn, Turpster and Nilesy. Elsa’s missing a few chunks from her tail and body, her shiny coat is no longer pristine, streaked with dirt and blood. She stands between Nilesy’s legs, tail curled in a loose question mark, teeth bared and body quivering in defiance of the odds headed towards her and Nilesy. He leans down to pat her for a job well done. Hey, he got to pet a cat before he dies. Now he can die content, knowing that.

“Good kitty,” He praises, wiping his hand on his shirt. His hand brushes against Will Strife’s lent shield, leaving a single line of red on top of it. It’d protected him as best as it could. Elsa relaxes for a second, purring. It elicits a faint, pleased smile.

“Sheriff Martyn,” Turpster rasps. His hat’s sporting bullet holes, the purple band ragged and peeling from the material it’s wrapped around. He’d lost his duster coat when it’d caught on fire. Blood dribbles from his nose and mouth.

“Yes?” Martyn’s leaning on a sagging barricade, reloading Law. The wounded Toms are far in the back, those who can still fight crowded around him.

“You’re a fine sheriff,” Turpster compliments. “I did good in picking you.”

“Thank you.” Martyn gives him a bittersweet smile, respectfully tilting his hat down.

“Hey look, a shooting star,” A Tom drawls. It’s the Tom with the bushy, brown beard and the hybrid of a beanie and cowboy hat. A shorter, rounder Tom (with a baseball cap) sighs at the magnificent sight.

Another Tom (wearing a sun hat) tugs a a pair of binoculars to their eyes, peering up. “That’s no shooting star, that’s a moonshot!” They shout; Turpster snatches the binoculars to see for himself, nearly gagging the poor Tom.

“Incoming!” He screams as the annoyed Tom snatches back their binoculars, stuffing it into their coat.

Everyone’s eyes turn to the moonshot to see where it’ll land. It’s not one moonshot slamming into the ground; smaller moonshots trail after it, orange and white tails flickering like burning bandit flags. The first moonshot crashes into a unit of bandits, setting an unlucky few ablaze. Screaming, the lit bandits drop, rolling to smother the flames. The remaining moonshots meet the ground, causing it to shake.

It’s silent on the battlefield as the smoke and dust clears. A rectangular, elongated oblong, bright yellow shape rests in the miniature crater. A white strap rounds around its midriff. One Blitzkrieg Blighter bandit clambers down when dared to, by their friends. They approach the object, a pistol held up. A single, dull grey mechanical eye is positioned at the front. The bandit grins, tapping the eye with a knuckle.

“It’s dead! It didn’t survive the landing!” They announce, turning, their confidence boosted by the astute observation.

The glassy eye burns red. Three spindly black legs forming a tripod expand from the object’s underside, cracking the burnt ground as it stabilizes itself. The bandit stares into the eye before screaming, exiting the crater to rejoin their friends.

The Constructor arises, gazing upon those staring at it. It ‘blinks’, the eye flaring as it starts to digistruct a Loader. Loaders exit their craters, marching as one to stand in front of the gate in a loose semi-circle. Loader after Loader is digistructed, until an army of yellow Loaders surround the barricades.

Its ‘job’ complete, the Constructor folds its legs, hovering. It floats towards the Loaders, who part to let it through. Only when it’s in the middle, behind the row of Loaders, does it unfold its legs again, landing on its tripod legs to face Saberial and present company. All the Loaders turn to mimic it, guns in hand.

Pushing Zoeya behind her, Saberial shoves past the gaping Toms, pointing her gun at the Constructor. Its glowing red eye stares at her. “Is it friendly?” She demands, of Martyn. “Who sent it?”

“I don’t know!” Martyn grunts. “Why is it here?” He holds Law up, prepared to fire, eyeing all the robots uneasily.

“It came from Hyperion, obviously!” Turpster growls. “We can’t trust anything from Hyperion!”

“Does that mean Rythian and the others failed?” A Tom whispers.

“He didn’t fail!” Zoeya defends. Her voice squeaks as the Loaders regard their charges with robotic apathy.

Beyond the line, the Blitzkrieg Bandits rejoice at the reinforcements, laughing, cheering and high-fiving one another. Stirling’s skull head bobs, joining in.

The Constructor digistructs one final object. The nearest Loader reaches over to grasp it, holding it in both hands as they would a ball. It’s a brand new power core.

“Give it here!” Stirling orders, striding over. Comically small compared to the Loader, they thrust a hand out. “We could use another one for the murder death rally arena.”

The Loader’s blue eye ignores Stirling. It flies up, boosting high; the other Loaders’ bodies execute turns to fire upon the bandits. Stirling pounds their chest, leaping back to avoid the worst of the bullets. The frontmost bandits drop like gassed skags as the Loaders advance. Other bandits shout. Enraged that their Hyperion reinforcements are betraying them, they move to continue the battle with these new foes.

Stirling chases the Loader with the power core. A few like-minded bandits tear after it; Saberial and Turpster track the Loader. Someone shoots off one of the Loader’s legs. It drops to the ground, rolling towards the power core’s hold. Bandits surround it, digistructing buzzsaws, clubs, bayoneted guns and axes; the smaller Psychos rip the Loader apart, tearing its limbs off. The power core rolls to the feet of a lieutenant who’s just arrived on a volt of Buzzards.

“Watch your power core explode!” Dornier ‘Spitfire’ dumps a can of noxious gasoline onto the power core, kicking it into the air, spitting a cloud of fire after it. Turpster tackles Dornier.

The power core catches fire, dropping like a heated stone. Bloody Bandits rapple from the walls to help the Loaders fend back the Blitzkrieg Blighters.

Elsa dives in front of Stirling, claws extended to scratch them across the face. Screaming, Stirling swings blindly at her. She dances back, hissing and spitting. Two Toms escort Nilesy to her side, defending him as he loosens Elsa’s leash.

Stepping on Stirling’s hunched back as they writhe, trying to hit Elsa, Saberial launches herself into the air. She stretches her hand out. Her gloves absorb the heat for a second. The shield detects the excess heat, offloading it into itself. She hits the ground at a roll, stumbling to her feet.

Stirling tackle slams into her from behind, knocking her over. The power core bounces, setting the trampled grass on fire. Zoeya lobs a cryo grenade into Stirling’s bloody ‘face’, plucking the power core from their grasp.

“Run!” Saberial gasps, grabbing her gun. She fires right into Stirling’s back; their back resembles a piece of sheet metal that’s been left out in acid rain.

“Give me the core!” Stirling lunges for Zoeya; Saberial fires Veruc into their hand. The hand separates in a mess of curled muscle, cracked bone and ragged flesh. Still, Stirling remains standing. They ignore the lack of a hand, rounding to face her. “That ain’t a smart move!”

A chunk of concrete ripped from the ground’s thrown at her. Saberial ducks, the chunk breaking into smaller pieces to scatter like practice gun pellets. She twists, sidestepping Stirling when they try to run into her with their shoulder. Shooting Stirling anywhere else failed; she’s running low on ammo and grenades, almost out of options to stop a helmetless Goliath.

An enormous Psycho tears past her, clutching a small, dented metal helmet. The Blitzkrieg Bandit tattoo on their bare back ripples as they bear down on Stirling.

“Cant! Kill her!” Stirling points. Cant doesn’t stop, cramming the helmet onto Stirling’s head. Stirling flails as Cant’s hand twists, shoving the helmet down further like they’re trying to stop a soda bottle from bursting.

Stirling rips off the helmet, the stalk of their head popping up to glare at Cant. When it does, Cant redoubles their efforts, until Stirling’s hand shoots out. It grabs Cant by the already broken arm and snaps it. 

“Cant!” Howling, Cant abandons the helmet, digistructing a buzzaxe to hack at Stirling. They hurl it at them; it misses, scoring Saberial across the collarbones and shoulder. “Cant!” Cant shouts, sounding apologetic. Stirling punches Cant in the leg, making them kneel.

Gasping as blood begins to gush from her chest, Saberial retrieves the buzzaxe, lobbing it back at Cant. Cant catches it, using it to bludgeon Stirling in the head. Blood splatters the ground as Stirling’s gouged in the forehead. Stirling roars as Cant keeps hacking at them.

Leaving the two titans be to clash, Saberial heads back to the power core building. The blood along her chest soaks all the way through her shirt and vest, down her front. It hurts, a lot; her old scar from that Atlas assassin's right underneath.

She retrieves an Anshin syringe from her belt. It’s jabbed into her arm; it’ll ease the blood loss. She can’t do anything about the increasing pain for now, letting it sharpen her senses and mind. It’s a risky move, but Saberial’s relying on it to get through this battle, pushing past her own limits. That, and wanting to see Zoeya again.

\--

Zoeya studies the power core, juggling the burning item from hand to hand. She slides it in. The holding mechanisms spit the cell back out; she catches it, shoving it back in. It rejects it a second time, the mechanism clunking in alarm.

“No, no, no!” She whispers, tearing up. “Why are you doing this?”

“Zoeya!” Saberial appears by her. Veruc despawns. Zoeya turns to her for help. She sees her chest wound, gasping.

“Just a scratch!” Saberial lies. Her front’s drenched in too much blood to be a scratch.

Zoeya chooses to believe her in spite of the evidence. “It won’t go in, I’ve tried!”

“Why not?” Saberial tries. For the third time, the power core is spat back out. “Fuck you!” She almost kicks it. “It can’t be broken!” Her shield spikes.

“I think it is,” Zoeya slowly states. She takes the core from Saberial; the heat spike begins to work against her shield, as it did while she was holding it earlier.

“How do we get it to connect?”

“I don’t know,” Zoeya admits. She stares at the power core in her hand, then at the mechanism. Where Stirling damaged it, the upper arm clicks, bobbing unevenly compared to the lower one. “Hang on. Saberial, I’m going to try something, but I want you to promise me something.”

“What? Do you know how to fix it?” Saberial stares at her in rapt, adoring wonder. Zoeya would have kissed her again, but she takes a deep breath. She forces a smile onto her face.

“No matter what happens, make sure the arm connects to the core.” 

“I promise.” Saberial grasps the loose arm, her arm muscles shifting under her shirt sleeves. Zoeya slots the power core in. Grunting, Saberial forces the upper arm to join, the end touching the power core.

It stays put. The power core starts to slowly spin as Zoeya uses her right hand to keep it in place. The shield above Sanctuary Hole begins to replenish as the power core picks up speed, spinning faster and faster.

Saberial’s eyes widen. “Zoeya, let go!” She orders.

“If I let go, it’ll pop out!” Zoeya whimpers as her shield drops, exposing her hand to the intense heat generated by the power core’s revival. “Ow!” Tears spill from her eyes as she pushes in then the power core rattles, threatening to fly free once more. 

“Zoeya! Stop it!” Saberial moves; Zoeya shakes her head, her hair whipping around her head.

“You promised not to move until the shield’s back!”

“Let go, or you’ll lose your hand!”

“It doesn’t hurt!” She lies, as the skin on her fingers are flayed off, cauterized by the heat. The initial pain nearly has her passing out; after that, she feels nothing, from her right hand. Crying, she slams her eyes shut so that she sees nothing.

“Oh, yes it does!” Roaring, Saberial bends the arm back into place, diving to free Zoeya. She and Zoeya land hard, Saberial’s knee jarring into cracked concrete. A nasty, burning stench like overcooked meat fills the air, making Saberial’s nose twitch.

She stares at the peeling, blackened chunk of burnt flesh that used to be Zoeya’s hand. Zoeya’s curled up on the ground. Each small, hurt noise is a direct stab to Saberial’s heart; she pats Zoeya’s matted hair, running her filthy fingers through the soft, damp strands.

Zoeya laughs at the touch, her eyes fluttering open. How she finds the energy to laugh, Saberial doesn’t know. It makes the pain in her chest worse. “Did it–did it work?”

“You did it. I’m so proud of you,” Saberial chokes out. “No stay here, I’m going to make sure that it wasn’t in vain.”

Nodding, Zoeya closes her eyes, resting. Saberial rises, stepping from the building.

Enemy bandits are kept at bay by the Loaders and Bloody Bandits. The posse of Toms remain at the gate, guarding Martyn. Turpster is brawling with Dornier, the two wrestling within a ring of onlookers; an ECHO device is in Dornier’s hand. The screen flashes, transmitting the sounds of the battle elsewhere.

Nilesy hotfoots it over, grabbing the ECHO device and fleeing like he’s heard that someone is hosting a free kitten petting session. Elsa follows at his heels, a protective diamond bullet ready to attack whoever draws close to him. Half the bandits leave, going after him. The other half remain to drag Turpster off Dornier.

“It’s too late, reinforcements are here!” Dornier crows, cackling. They throw their head back, laughing. “See!” A point indicates the dark shapes heading towards Sanctuary Hole. “Your shield’s not gonna last with another round of bombs!”

“Fuck you!” Turpster wrests himself free and punches Dornier in the face.

Dornier groans, rubbing at their bloody nose. They kick Turpster, punching him in the back of the head. Turpster stays on the ground, moaning.

The first of the reinforcement Buzzards drop lower and lower, until a regiment of Blitzkrieg Bandits stand behind Dornier, each armed to the teeth. The Buzzards rise, hovering in place. The shield’s light and layer swirls with each aircraft. All of the bandits sport mutinous expressions.

“So, what took you all so long?” Dornier strides to meet them, toting their gun on one shoulder. 

Two bandits stride forward. “We were busy getting ready to kick your fucking ass for stealing our Buzzards, Assfire,” Hawker snarls.

“It’s time for payback, you son of a gun,” Hurricane hisses. “And guess what? Siebel’s flying in with every  _ single _ Buzzard that you didn’t forcefully take from Blohm and Voss.”

_ “And  _ Bucker sent Cant ahead too to deal with Stirling!”

“...Fuck!” Dornier’s bandits are swept into the battle as Hawker and Hurricane’s units join the battle. “Hey, if you broke out, where’s that prick Arsenal?”

“We don’t fucking know! He said he had something to do and went off with those couriers!” Hawker thrusts their bladed rifle at Dornier, trying to stab them. Dornier laughs, batting it away as Hurricane closes in.

Dornier retreats, fleeing towards the plains. A line of vehicles blocking the horizon’s parked there; they head towards one, hoping that none are occupied. A ramp which Curtiss had set up earlier propels the straggling vehicles over the ravine.

When Dornier draws closer, they realise that people are present. 

A gladiator holds up a hand. “You part of the Blitzkrieg Blighters?” They inquire, voice echoing in the confines of their metal helmet.

“Nope, I’m part of the Bloody Bandits!” Dornier tries to push past, towards the technical.

“You’re  _ blue.” _

“I stole this jacket off a dead guy!”

“Hey Corvax, check this hotshot bandit out. You think they’re lying?”

“I think so.” Corvax leans back on his gilded throne that’s bolted to the top of a Monster, stroking his chin. “Cuff them and bring them back with us.” He peers at the horizon where Sanctuary Hole lies. “Alright, let’s finish this battle so I don’t have to keep paying back Ravs!”

\--

Far below in a darkened ravine, Arado regards Parvis and Daltos. Parvis points his assault rifle at Arado, trying to partially shield Daltos. Daltos is unaware that his former lieutenant is currently leaning against a rock. A pistol is pointed at the two.

“I thought I killed you!” Parvis babbles, trying not to show that he’s disturbed.

“You  _ thought _ you did,” Arado easily acknowledges. “Got me real good too. In the light of the ECHO device hanging off their belt, the scars on their face are sinister than ever. Dried blood clings to their outfit. Parvis can taste it on his tongue. “What do you think you’re doing?” Their malevolent eyes flick to Parvis’ hands and Daltos’ current state.

Arado’s voice has Daltos stirring. He opens his eyes to see Parvis bent over him, holding a gun. “Parvis, what’s going on?”

“Not dead either.” Arado grins. “That  _ really _ adjusts my impression of what you were doing to him.”

“I wasn’t doing anything untoward!” While being aware that his feeble argument’s not doing much to shift perceptions, Parvis keeps aiming.

“Parvis, fucking shut up for a sec,” Daltos mumbles, wincing at how loud Parvis’ voice is, right next to him.

“I can’t because there’s a zombie being a real creep!” Parvis glances down to see Daltos blinking. The Anshin syringe must be doing something; Daltos looks slightly better than he did a few minutes ago, his eyes clear and focused, rather than hazy and bleary with pain.

Daltos turns his head. When he spots Arado, he squints. “That zombie looks like Bob.”

“Maybe it is Bob?” Parvis whispers back. His whisper carries to Arado, who shoves off the rock.

“It is me, you assholes!” Arado snaps. “I didn’t die when you shot me in the back!”

“How’d you find us?” Parvis demands.

“Followed your trail of destruction. Nobody recognised me without my helmet on, so I just had to hock it. Also bumped off a dude with a Buzzard to get down here.” Arado reveals. “It’s just my lucky day to find you two all alone down here, with nobody to watch your sorry backs.”

“Oh.” Daltos considers this piece of information for a second. He perks up, moving onto an elbow, smirking. Parvis tries not to draw attention to how Daltos’ whole body’s shaking from the effort. In a strained voice, Daltos says. “That’s good, since I get to kill you myself.”

Arado dryly laughs, mouth twisting into a smirk. “Do you need ten minutes alone before I murder the both of you?”

“I only need five minutes, thanks!” Parvis retorts.

“Parvis, please shut the fuck up,” Daltos mutters.

“It’s true, I just gotta get your shirt!” Parvis informs him.

Daltos glances down to see his unzipped jacket and his pushed up shirt. He fixes it, zipping his jacket back up. He draws Emperor one-handed, aiming it at Arado’s bald and scarred head.

“I’ll give one of you the first shot.” Still smirking, Arado takes a step forward. “I don’t think I’ll miss when it’s my turn though.” A scattering of loose pebbles lands by Arado’s boot. Arado ignores it, waiting for Parvis or Daltos to shoot. “Don’t want it? Okay–”

A Stingray power slams into the ground behind Arado, flinging them into the side of the ravine. A figure fires a pistol at Arado; Arado rolls, diving behind a boulder. The Stingray returns to hovering, fans spinning up a whirlwind. The saddlebags on either side of the Stingray bulge, shifting on the spot as the Stingray’s driver turns to face the three staring at them.

“You should have stayed still and made my job easier!” Arsenal switches the pistol for a Maliwan rocket launcher. He points it at Arado.

Arado squints at him. “So you busted out.”

“It’ll take much more than a shitty brig to hold me.” Arsenal bears the gaudy looking rocket launcher without a problem, letting it rest on one shoulder. “You know what this is?”

“Yeah, I do. It’s that legendary that took out my gang.” Arado traces a finger over their face. “You gave me these scars, and burned my bud who threw themself on top of me to keep me alive with their shield.”

“I ain’t sorry. You weren’t surrendering.” Arsenal taps the rocket launcher’s side. “But I did stop using this because of that.” Parvis and Daltos watch the two stare each other down. “Arado, it still ain’t too late to surrender.”

In that moment, Arado’s shoulders slump. They spin the pistol in their hand. “I gotta finish this.” They sigh. “Even if I did, things’ll never be the same between us all.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to finish Sjin’s dirty work for him.”

“Sorry.” Arado shrugs. “But it’s too late.”

Arsenal nods, once. His expression turns murderous. “Don’t you dare say ‘sorry’ after you cut off my leg and shot my kraggon, you fucking–” Arsenal hurls the rocket launcher at Arado; its weight is like a Goliath’s charge, slamming Arado into the boulder behind them. “Go get them!” The command’s not directed at Parvis and Daltos.

The Stingray’s saddlebags burst open. Two tiny, yellow cracked kraggons streak towards Arado. Both jaws split, molten maws glowing a dark orange.

“I thought I killed Boner!” Arado shoots at the two advancing kraggons. Both kraggons dart in and out of the rocks along the bottom of the ravine, almost blending in.

“If you bothered to check, kraggons never die!” Arsenal guns the Stingray, using it to propel himself at Arado; he leaps off, tackling Arado. The two kraggons sink their jaws into both of Arado’s legs to maul, shaking their stony heads.

Parvis watches in morbid fascination, his mouth open. Daltos tries to cover his eyes. Parvis bats his hands away. He can’t miss every second of Arsenal beating the shit out of Arado; Arsenal’s driven by a pure rage and vengeance, Arado’s by the need to survive, the leadership that they’d once held no longer important.

With a pained grunt, Arado slams a shredded leg into the ground. The kraggon attached yips, retreating. With their free leg, Arado kicks the other kraggon. It whines, rolling backwards before it skids back. Both growl. Arado points a gun at them; Arsenal rips the gun from their hand, baring his teeth and ducking his head.

Denying Arsenal the chance to bite off their other ear, Arado punches him in the teeth. Spitting blood, Arsenal falters; Arado shoves him off, scooping up his gun. Arsenal struggles upright on the wall, holding both his hands up.

“My hero,” Daltos sarcastically mutters.

“Hey, I tried, but at least we die together, which is kind of my wet dream,” Arsenal jokes.

“Any last words?” Arado inquires. Daltos says nothing, as with Parvis.

Arsenal looks up for inspiration. Above him, riding the wind currents, a single rakk glides. He squints. It must be the blood loss and the knock to the head taking a toll on him. The rakk looks like it’s speeding towards him, its two wings tucked to its side to maximise speed.

“Fuck you, _Bald_ _Bob,_ ” Arsenal whispers, grinning like he’s not about to kiss death.

Arado grits their teeth as Daltos and Parvis snort. Arado aims the pistol at Arsenal’s head when the rakk unfurls its wings. Its barbed tail whips up to shred his back and head; Arado shouts, spitting curses. They wheel to shoot the rakk. The rakk drops, Arado’s shot missing it. It cracks off a rock, missing a kraggon, which hides behind the Stingray. The other kraggon growls at the rakk.

The rakk ignores the kraggons, snapping with its slitted mouth at Arado’s bloody legs. Arado tries to stomp its head; a sweep of an enormous, scarred leathery wing knocks them aside. Seeing the bomb strapped to its chest has Arado’s shots turning erratic.

Arado scrambles back onto their feet, avoiding a potential bite. Crawling on its wings, the rakk shrieks as it snakes towards them. It’s pushing him towards a wider section of the ravine with every thrust of its great, scaly and crested head. The rakk dodges every other shot, hopping and ducking, the tips of its swings gouging a path behind it. Its tail leaves a massive trench in its wake.

Right as it corners Arado, the rakk spreads both wrings. Its crest rises before it shrieks. It takes off in a cloud of dust, beating its wings. Arado turns their gun from it to Arsenal.

“You die–” Arado snarls, face twisting into a victorious grimace, then stops mid-sentence. The bullet that’d traveled through their head is still smoking as it rends through the snow and ice on the ground. Arado falls into a crumpled heap.

Far away, Lomadia rests her head against the scope of Skullmasher, panting. Under her goggles, salty tears spill down her face, nearly into her nose and mouth. Her rakk screams joyful murder into the night. Teep slumps against a rock, holding their chest, so close to overdoing it.

Back in the ravine, Arsenal, Daltos and Parvis stare at Arado’s downed body. The two miniature kraggons snake around and over the rocks across the bottom of the ravine towards it. Glowing mouths widen as the kraggons near Arado’s corpse. Jaws unhinge. With wet, slurping sounds, the kraggons start to devour Arado’s face, biting and tearing off sizeable chunks of scarred flesh, disappearing down the two’s gullets. Glimpses of rocky teeth making short work of the meat induces nausea in Parvis.

The rakk lands, flapping wings stirring up a dark cloud. The kraggons ignore it; the rakk dips its leathery head to join in the feast. Compared to the kraggons, the rakk’s messier and less composed about its bites. It rips right into Arado’s chest, ignorant of the bulky layers of clothing in its way.

Daltos grimaces, trying to get to his feet. Trying not to watch the kraggons and rakk eat, Parvis rests a hand on his arm, stopping him. “Don’t move. Help’s inbound, according to Sparkles.”

“It’s over, that’s enough,” Arsenal whistles, calling the two kraggons to his side. What’s left of Arado is a stripped skull and body akin to a Goliath’s one teetering atop a browned, spindly stalk of a spine. The two kraggons whine, nuzzling against his jacket. He enthusiastically pats both their heads, not minding the mess being slathered onto his clothes. “That went better than I expected.”

“What’s with the two kraggons?” Daltos shrugs off Parvis’ hand. He collects Arado’s digistruct modules from the ground. He stashes both in his inventory, slumping against Arsenal a few moments later.

“That’s not a dog?” Parvis remembers meeting one kraggon before when camping at Lalnable’s clinic. Elora had carried one in her saddlebag. Maybe these two kraggons are related to that one?

“Daltos and Parvis, meet Arden and Ravs’ dick!” Arsenal tries to push a kraggon towards Daltos. It doesn’t want to leave, whining. The other kraggon trots over to sniff Parvis. It barks, trying to lick his face with a tongue that’s painted as red as a freshly licked lollipop.

“Ew, I don’t want your licks after you bit and ate Bob,” Parvis mutters in disgust, pushing the eager kraggon away. The kraggon keeps trying, snout nosing him, spiky and stumpy tail wagging like a metronome that’s gone out of control. With one leg broken, he can’t escape the persistent attempts.

This kraggon’s half the size of the one Parvis played fetch with. It’s still the same cinder block grey with patches of rock brown colouring its stone hide. An orange tongue still wet with patches of blood darts in an out; Parvis glimpses curved protrusions like stalactites (or stalagmites) along the top and bottom of the kraggon’s cavernous, glowing mouth. He keeps his fingers well clear, still fending off the friendly nosing and snuffling.

“I’m already familiar with Ravs’ dick, which I know isn’t here.” Daltos squints at Arsenal. Arsenal leans into him.

“No,  _ this  _ is Ravs’ dick, also known as ‘Dick’ for short!” Arsenal indicates with a thumb towards the kraggon staying by him. The kraggon’s laid its head on Arsenal’s right leg, panting every few seconds, tongue lolling and mouth wide open. Its breath stinks like wet metal and cooked meat. Arsenal spawns a rag to lovingly wipe off excess fluid.

Daltos deadeyes him before closing his eyes. “I get it, you’re talking about the kraggon, which you named after ‘Ravs’ Dick.’” The flatness in his voice could have been an iron.

“Yeah! I wanted to call Arden ‘Lil D’, but we already got one.” Arsenal’s laugh at Daltos’ expression turns into a painful wince. “Man, I’m in so much pain.” There’s a pause of sorts.

“Hi, ‘in so much pain’, I’m Daltos,” Daltos whispers, giggling a tad hysterically. “Hey, uh, if you two don’t mind, I’m gonna pass out since my heart’s finally done with this shit.” His head falls back as he completely slumps against Arsenal.

Arsenal stares at him before yelling, along with Parvis. Buzzards flock overhead, lights scanning the ravine for the three.

\--

Lalnable departs the Caustic Caverns lift with a horde of Bloody Bandits bearing straining backpacks and storage units crammed to the max with medical supplies and equipment. Tents provided by Corvax and FyreUK shelter the wounded, taking up almost all of the open space available in the town.

As usual, the dead sleep. Identifying the corpses will take some time; bandits from both sides are combing through the carnage, seeking survivors, wrapping up and piling the dead onto trailers and collecting personal belongings. Buzzards and technicals ferry supplies back and forth between the dam and the town. It’s still nighttime, rows of floodlights forming temporary drop zones and roads.

Prisoners are under guard in the dam until further arrangements are made by Sparkles; most are exhausted, grateful for the rations handed over, and a safe place to rest. Troublemakers are marched into the cage match arena for a timeout, which dangles above a constant vortex of water located underneath them. 

The repaired bridge creaks as vehicles roll over it. Bandits direct traffic, bearing glowsticks and flashlights. Gladiators go where they’re needed, bossed around by Corvax. Corvax appears to be getting along famously with Turpster, who’s rather taken by Corvax’s mustache and build.

Passing Corvax detailed his exploits of running an arena to a gaping Turpster, Lalnable accesses the Fast Travel Station in the town. He leaves his assigned ‘medics’ to do their job. The Bruiser called Klemm can manage without him. His high priority patients have been moved to his clinic (which remained untouched).

The clinic’s the busiest it’s ever been since the two gangs warred over Parvis’ damn dam. Lalnable’s insisted on keeping the foot traffic to a minimum to avoid disturbing his patients.

Nilesy’s wiping down Elsa with a cloth. A bowl of water rests on the table next to him. Elsa dips her paw in and out, appearing fascinated by her reflection. Lomadia’s sitting next to him, dressed in her regular gear again. Her legs are pulled up onto the chair. She shifts restlessly, occasionally throwing a glance down the left hallway. The rakk that’s normally with her is roosting in the mountains.

In Lomadia’s arms, Clucky dozes. Beside her, Daisy naps, Peculiar’s arm wrapped around her shoulders. A thermal blanket covers the two. Daisy quietly snores, Peculiar mumbling nonsense. Lalnable passes the family, entering the main room where the bulk of his patients are resting.

Parvis hobbles around the room on crutches, advising a few chosen helpers what to do. He pauses by Sparkles’ bed, scribbling a date and time of death onto Sparkles’ clipboard. Sparkles dozes, unaware of the prank. Benji and Strippin take up beds of their own. The two are also fast asleep, so Parvis skips them.

“Cause of death: being a meme-loving fuck,” Parvis mutters. Giggling at finally getting revenge, he moves on.

In the next bed over, Zoeya’s awake. She’s leaning against a stack of pillows. Parvis greets her. She smiles, letting him examine her right hand. His face turns green. Looking up, he spots Lalnable, hopping over. Even with his leg bound in a cast, he’s still being a nuisance. Lalnable corrects himself; a helpful nuisance.

“Zoeya wants your insight on her arm!” Parvis chirps. His energy hasn’t dipped since he got his crutches and leg wrapped in a cast. 

He hobbles past Lalnable to check on Martyn, who’s getting treatment for his shrapnel blasted leg. Gifts from the Toms fill Martyn’s beside table (much to his embarrassment). Lalnable had to shoo the rest back to Sanctuary Hole, setting a limit of only two Toms being allowed in the clinic at any one time.

In the bed next to Martyn, a deputy (hatless) Tom wriggles from side to side, trying to get comfortable. They’ve donned blue latex gloves to prod at their own stitches. Parvis turns to tell them off. Martyn laughs. The second Tom (wearing double the cowboy hats) brings glasses of water in.

“I know.” Lalnable makes his way over to Zoeya. In a bed adjacent to Zoeya, Saberial softly snores. The stitches keeping her chest together are visible above the top of her hospital shirt. On her back, she sprawls across the bed, her expression peaceful.

Zoeya wordlessly extends her right hand. Lalnable gently takes it without touching it. “This will need to be amputated,” Lalnable concludes after a few minutes of close and intense scrutiny. “I don’t think I can save the remaining nerves and tissue. It’s simply too damaged.”

“Oh! I uh, thought so too.” Zoeya rubs the back of her head with her other hand. “No sense in keeping something that’s hurt this badly, right?”

Her obvious attempt to stay optimistic has Lalnable giving her a slight smile. “The good news is that I have spare prosthetics in stock. I’ve already reserved one for you. Your arm won’t also need to be amputated above the elbow.”

“Oh, so I don’t get to get a whole cybernetic arm, just half an arm.” Zoeya pretends to look disappointed.

“Don’t copy Lalna,” Lalnable absently says. His mind flicks him a mental image of Lalna being shot by Rythian. He shakes it off. “Don’t forget to take your second dose of painkillers later.”

“Thanks, Lalnable.” Zoeya lowers her head, watching her arm.

Lalnable scribbles a few notes on her clipboard. He replaces it on its hook. “I can operate tomorrow, at the earliest. At the moment, I have other patients. I’ll try to get to you sooner, but I make no promises. In the meantime, do get some sleep. I’ll be reachable by ECHO if you require anything else.”

“No problem! I’ll just keep it safe in this thing.” Zoeya taps the protective covering keeping her arm safe. “Just keep taking care of people.” 

Lalnable leaves her be; he doesn’t have anything to say that’ll comfort her which hasn’t already been covered by Saberial or the others.

He enters the furthest area in his clinic, making an L-shaped turn from the waiting room. It’s quieter in this section. This section’s split into smaller, closed rooms, and includes his main surgery room.

At the end of the hallway, Lalnable knocks on a door. He hears excited shuffling and a hissed ‘no, down, both of you!’. Inside, Arsenal reclines on the bed. Arden and Dick raise their heads when they hear Lalnable entering. The two pant, trotting to sniff Lalnable’s boots; Arsenal whistles, ordering them to stop. The two whine, slipping back under the bed to balefully watch.

If Lalnable got his way, the kraggons should have been on a leash outside. To avoid triggering Arsenal and the kraggons’ separation anxiety, Lalnable’s willing to permit the two to stay, provided they’re quiet and don’t make a giant mess. So far, the kraggons have been obedient (to a fault, aside from swallowing a box of gloves that fell onto the floor, yet to be spat back out).

“Nice to finally meet you in person, doc.” Arsenal waves. He’s dressed in a set of hospital clothes, legs crossed atop the bed.

“It’s Lalnable,” Lalnable tersely corrects.

“Lalnable, huh?” Arsenal looks like he’s about to ask a question. He closes his mouth.

“Yes, Lalna’s my twin brother,” Lalnable sighs.

“Well, shit. Who’d have guessed?” Arsenal chuckles at his own joke. “Anyway, I guess I might not need that one appointment with you after all.” He points to the remains of his left leg.

“Let me have a look anyway.” Lalnable pulls up the fabric hiding it, after Arsenal nods in the way of permission.

“Your mouth’s going all liney,” Arsenal observes, watching him. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Whoever did this didn’t do a very good job.” Lalnable rearranges the fabric on Arsenal’s leg. “I’ll have to cut it back, if you ever hope to get a prosthetic and walk. That is, if you want one–”

Arsenal stares at Lalnable. “Say that again?”

Trying not to appear displeased at being interrupted, Lalnable continues, “I’ll have to cut it back. If you would like to walk again, there’s a range of prosthetics available–”

“No, no, the part in the middle!” Arsenal insists, sitting up with wide eyes.

“If you would like to walk again…” Lalnable begins, slower than before. He stops because of the teary look on Arsenal’s face.

“I can walk again,” Arsenal breathes. He rubs at his face, eyes glimmering. “I can  _ walk _ again,” He repeats, in an hushed undertone.

Lalnable’s mind casts for Arsenal’s medical file compiled back when the initial appointment had been made. He connects Arsenal’s joy with the amount of time he had his old injury. He chastises himself for being too irascible without knowing someone’s background.

“That can be arranged, but I warn you that it’s a fairly lengthy process. There’s the amputation, plus extra preparatory surgery, finding a suitable prosthetic and physical therapy.” Lalnable stops himself to let Arsenal digest the skeleton outline of the steps involved.

“Sorry, I got a lil emotional there.” Arsenal lets out a shaky, quiet laugh. Tone shifting, he adds, “Lalnable, I don't care how long it takes, I  _ want _ to walk again.”

“Well, I can’t fault you for your enthusiasm.” Lalnable smiles at him. Arsenal grins back. “I’ll schedule your amputation as soon as possible. I’ll be back with some forms and information later.”

“Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the update.” As Lanable moves to leave, Arsenal waves his hand, launching forwards. “Wait!”

“Yes–be careful!” Lalnable grabs him by the bicep, hosting him back into the bed before he can fall flat onto his face.

“Is it possible for me to transition? Once I finish getting my leg.” Arsenal gazes at him with such raised hopes.

“HRT?” Lalnable guesses. Arsenal nods, hanging onto his every word. “Of course it is. Ordering the hormones and getting them delivered will be tricky, but I have contacts. Leave it to me.” Lalnable doesn’t like talking to Nanosounds’ uncanny lookalike via the dating site, let alone arranging another secret delivery of hard-to-obtain goods (stuff that Hollie couldn’t get), but the dating site offers top encryptions. She’s never failed him yet. “Is that all?”

Arsenal stops holding his breath. “Thank you.” He adjusts his posture so that he’s on his back. The grin on his face doesn’t leave him. He spawns his ECHO device. He dials ‘FyreUK’, his shit-eating grin could rival Parvis’ during trivia night. “Hey, this is Arsenal. As the former and current Bandit Lord of the Blitzkrieg Blighters, whaddya say about letting me put out a message across all channels? Oh, nothing much, just a little PSA, nothing too violent or gory…”

Lalnable closes the door. His next destination is the neighboring room. Hawker’s gone off to get food; someone should be watching the corridor for murder attempts. Lalnable notes to tell off that sentry when they get back.

As usual, he knocks before entering. Daltos isn’t asleep either, staring blankly at the ceiling. A ‘get well’ card rests in his lap. Its filled to the edges with cramped, childish writing and scrawls. An upturned, battered, navy Marauder’s helmet acts like a bowl for multiple chains of dogtags. His jacket hangs from the end of the bed, as with his bandolier. He’s wearing the standard issued pants, the shirt thrown atop his jacket.

The knife in his back’s replaced by bandages and sterile padding. Donated blood bags (some with messages like ‘FOR DADDY, LOVE, YOUR FIFTY THOUSAND SONS, DAUGHTERS AND CHILDREN’, ’CANT’, ‘SORRY’, ‘WELCOME BACK, DAD’, ‘BLESSED PATRIARCH’S RETURN’, scribbled across the sides) hang from an IV stand. The translucent, red filled line feeds into one of Daltos’ arms, the life-saving transfusion currently in progress.

The door closing moves his gaze to Lalnable. He waits for Daltos’ gaze to focus, sharpening to fuzzy alertness.

“How’s Arsenal and Parvis?” Daltos rasps. He drinks from a canteen, sitting up to do so. It exposes the bruises spanning his upper arm. When the Buzzards arrived, Arsenal refused to let anybody move Daltos, his grip as powerful as a thresher’s. It’d taken fifteen minutes of rapid sweet-talking from Parvis to convince him to let Daltos go.

“They’ll both live.” Lalnable checks his vitals and the IV stand. Nothing’s amiss.

“And the others?”

“I didn’t think you cared, considering your role.” Lalnable realises that it's the wrong thing to say when guilt flashes over Daltos’ face. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s fine. I know what I did.” Daltos stays sitting up. The bandages on the right side on his face twitch as he grimaces.

“As we discussed briefly earlier, there’s a few options for your right eye, mostly to reduce the inflammation and potential scarring–”

“Can you take it out?” Daltos interrupts.

Lalnable takes the abrupt question into stride. “Certainly, but to do it so soon is–”

“It’s too fucked, so what’s the point of keeping it?” Daltos tugs at the bandage on his head. Parvis did too much of a good knot; it refuses to loosen. Daltos keeps picking at it. 

Lalnable doesn’t waste time by telling him off. “We’ll have to wait for it it to heal before we can install a prosthetic. That’ll take about six weeks, so long as it heals well.”

Daltos considers this. “I can wait.”

“You seem to have thought about this plenty,” Lalnable dryly comments.

“Can you do it right now? I can handle the pain.”

“We’ll have to move to my surgery room.” Lalnable’s pleased with himself for preparing his room beforehand, just in case anything like this happened.

“Can you do it without anybody seeing us?”

“I should think so. Nobody’s allowed back here without my permission.”

“Then let’s go.” Daltos moves from the bed; he’s in his bare feet. Lalnable guides him down the hallway, careful to keep the IV stand level. He doesn’t need to ask if Daltos is doubly sure as he seats Daltos and prepares for the fastest eye removal procedure on this side of Pandora.

\--

Daltos is left in his room to sleep off his extra dose of painkillers. Teep isn’t in their bed when Lalnable arrives for a check-up visit, rubbing his hands on a damp towel. They remain motionless in the chair by the window. Their hood’s down. Lalnable spies a flash of purple in the palm of Teep’s glove before it despawns. Teep faces him.

“There’s no point in lecturing you,” Lalnable begins. “You didn’t return to the clinic as I asked.” Teep fails to respond (as usual). “You nearly tore all your stitches open,  _ and _ damaged your broken arm further, plus came  _ this _ close to getting frostbite.”

> but i didnt

“You’re a liability to yourself.” Lalnable rubs a dry hand against his face. The damp towel’s thrown into his inventory. “I can’t understand why you continue to put yourself in danger.”

> do i get a prize for being the worst patient or does that go to zylus or rythian

“Zylus isn’t a contender, and neither’s Rythian.” Lalnable eyes Teep with tired patience. “Stop deflecting my concern with humour. I’m just glad that you didn’t hurt Lomadia when you roped her into your mission.”

With a finger, Teep pushes up their goggles up to their forehead. Their eyes gaze at Lalnable with mild contempt. Lalnable shivers, under his lab coat. Teep restores their goggles.

“I made sure she never came to any harm,” They sign.

“Then why did she privately request a mild tranquilizer from me when I examined her?”

“Beats me,” Teep flippantly signs.

“As a doctor, I have a duty of care to all my patients. that includes continuously monitoring those who’re at risk of returning, where possible.” Lalnable’s short temper pulses against his temple.

“Wow, so you care about the people who leave your clinic!” Teep adds a sardonic wave of their hand to get their tone across.

“This is more than just a  _ job _ to me!” Lalnable snaps. He exhales, straightening up to regather his frayed composure. His temper feels better after that little outburst, at least.

“You can ask Lomadia, she doesn’t bite,” Teep advises.

“I’m worried about triggering her distress again,” Lalnable admits.

“Then go ask Nilesy, Zoeya or Saberial.”

“You’re listed as one of her primary emergency contacts. Nilesy is presently being treated for PTSD, Zoeya and Saberial are asleep.”

“Oh, so I’m the only one awake for your twenty questions.”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

Teep appears to think, tilting their head. “It started after she saw Arsenal,” They eventually sign. “They might know each other.”

“Thank you. You’ve been more helpful than I initially expected.”

“Later, hater.”

“It’s Lalnable!”

\--

Parvis is leaning on his crutches by the vending machine when Elora and Trell appear at the Fast Travel Station by the clinic. Each carry extra supplies. A wave of couriers arrive to assist. He waves them over, nearly dropping one of his crutches; Trell balances him by grabbing it before it tips, handing it over.

“Thanks,” Parvis says, grinning. He points to the boxes in Trell and Elora’s hands. “What’s all that? Food?” He hopes it’s food; it’s been an hour since he ate. After everything, it’s taking forever for his stomach to get the message

“Home made cookies, for you and your mates!” Elora cheerfully says.

“We also bring supplies from SipsCo., which should help–” Trell starts, sounding pompous.

“I could use a cookie right now, if you can spare one,” Parvis slyly says. “In fact, I’ll trade you three lollipops for a five of those babies with the chocolate chips…”

“Deal,” Elora blurts as Trell opens his mouth.

“Elora! You can’t just do that without bartering!”

“Three lollipops for five cookies sounds fair!”

The squabbling attracts no attention from the other patients. Lalnable’s elsewhere, so nobody’s too worried about being lectured for causing noise pollution. The three make the exchange, munching on the cookies. 

The delicious smell attracts Nilesy and Lomadia. Elsa naps on Nilesy’s chair in a cloth blanket. Nilesy and Lomadia accept cookies; Lomadia’s too silent while Nilesy tries to impress the two couriers with a blow by blow commentary of the battle of Sanctuary Hole.

Parvis yawns, tipping his head up to feel the breeze ruffle his hair. He smacks his lips. One of the stars is brighter than usual; it’d better not be another moonshot headed for Sanctuary Hole. With the shield in place, the moonshot’s useless. There’s no word yet from the Vault Hunters or Zylus. It doesn’t need to be said that everyone’s relying on the two teams to succeed.

A Bloody Bandit passing by the clinic lends Parvis their binoculars. Their technical, which is carrying a frozen statue in the trailer behind, trundles off towards the dam to thaw Daltos’ lieutenant who’s trapped inside. Daltos’ lieutenants who'd showed up as helpful reinforcements are camping in Three Horns within a stone’s throw. The other lieutenants who’d surrendered and refused to help are being kept under watch at the dam.

A few wanted to see Daltos in person after handing over the blood transfusion bags. Lalnable immediately said ‘no’. Even the two metre tall bandit with the doubly broken arm couldn't intimidate him into letting them in. Parvis recognised them as ‘Cant’, one of his formerly illiterate students. Cant sulked; Bucker promised to pass on the ‘get well’ card, leading the others off down the hill.

Parvis tucked it into Daltos’ inventory the first chance he got while he was passed out in his bed. He hoped it puts a smile onto Daltos’ face.

Also, how many of his own bandits were forced to fight former friends, teachers and students?

Pushing that question to the depths of his mind, Parvis twiddles the knobs for the zoom. It blurs, then sharpens, until he can see the faint outline of the mining rig. It’s moved since he last saw it, or so he swears. The laser attached to its underside is glowing vividly, cutting a crisp, white outline into the blackness of the space behind it.

“Hey, something’s happening!” Parvis yells, pointing at the sky. The binoculars knock into his chest on its strap. “The mining rig’s firing!”

Elora, Trell, Nilesy and Lomadia stop chewing. Nilesy bursts back inside to call for people. Those who can arrive outside the clinic. All eyes turn upwards to where Parvis is pointing. The clouds have moved onto greener pastures, leaving the star studded skies clear.

High in the night sky above the Deadlands, the mining rig fires its greatest ever burst. The laser beam pierces through the dark, striking an unseen target. All the onlookers stare, simultaneously perturbed and awed by the rare sight, save for Teep. Teep stayed indoors.

Teep watches the pulsing, shining eridium shard nestled in the palm of their glove. It’d been that way before and during the sniper duel, staying a purple glow so bright that it almost appears a perfect white. Ten minutes later, the glow abruptly vanishes, and the shard is dead, a lifeless grey. One by one, their fingers curl over it.

If all this mass bloodshed, pain, grief, loss and tears was the price they paid for their own hard fought victory? In everyone’s hearts, they wonder what victory will ultimately cost Rythian and those who chose to accompany him. 

**Author's Note:**

> (the battle’s won but the war isn’t over yet.)
> 
> over 40,000 words achieved! major thanks to polishingopals, teagstime, doublearrows, endragh and siins for helping these scenes take shape. fingerguns at y’all.
> 
> sips’ true identity is now known to all the citizens of sanctuary hole! he’ll show up again later, now that he’s aware of sjin’s activities. while he’s in the background a lot, he does get his own development with how he interacts with sanctuary hole’s folks. he forms an attachment to turpster, which feeds into his decision to give out free guns. he did his part! now he’s on the road to dealing with sjin. more about that later, in ‘tlvh’.
> 
> aside from the dam defense, parvis’ other big battle is in ‘tlvh’ chapter eleven; he’s actually not so brave without his bandits backing him up. i’ve dropped lots of hints about this trait of his in the past, but it’s the main reason why he doesn’t go in guns blazing to save daltos. he does stand up to his fear in the end though, which changes the tide of the entire battle. he also suffers for it, though emerged largely unscathed.
> 
> arsenal and lomadia will meet again in ‘tlvh’ chapter fifteen, so don’t worry about the two not meeting in this story! also, told you that the boner lives on in their two sons. i wanted to give arsenal a bigger role; i originally had him staying put in the frigate’s brig, languishing but then decided not to go with that route. he’s a pretty vindictive and spiteful person so i thought about what he’d do if he got the chance to be sprung and ended up with what you read above. i’m very glad i went with that decision.
> 
> saberial and zoeya’s relationship hits second max level (the next tier being MARRIED). compared to arsenal, zoeya was going to be involved in this battle, as with nilesy (and elsa). she was also always going to lose her hand by grabbing the power core and trying to keep it in its cell. even though she loses her hand in the process, she conquers her fear of fire while doing so (which also endears her to saberial immensely). this is also an obvious blackrock reference as to how she loses her hand.
> 
> in regards to nilesy’s love of cats being his only weapon? i foreshadowed that all the way when i wrote nilesy’s profile. that was over a year ago! i also foreshadowed arado’s eventual backstabbing. arado wasn’t ever really joking about backstabbing daltos; the two (and arsenal) lowkey knew that it’d eventually happen, but not like this. the two will miss the prick.
> 
> want instant feels? zylus thinks that daltos is safe throughout this battle on his end! you’re welcome.
> 
> what’s also happening up on the mining rig and in the vault while all this is going on? this chapter’s a companion piece to ‘tlvh’ chapter fourteen. it’ll all make sense in due time.
> 
> thank you to the boisterous siins for the one and only complicated doodle, which you can find [here](https://borderlandscast.tumblr.com/tagged/beyond-the-borderlands%3A-the-battle-of-sanctuary-hole). thank you for reading, and catch you later in ‘tlvh’ chapter fourteen, which is coming next month.


End file.
